


Thunder Echoes

by wickedwanton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:43:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedwanton/pseuds/wickedwanton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock leaped from the roof like the ravens at the Tower.  Can a crow black sprite and his Lenore mend the rift evermore?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sebastian Moran took his time lighting his Cohiba, his eyes never moving from the high definition monitor. The night vision image didn’t hold the detail he would have preferred personally and professionally, but he had to settle for it. There were goals to be achieved.

The room had been kept at .5 lux, like a clear night with a setting full moon, for just over a month. Never brighter or dimmer, no sunlight had crept in nor true darkness fallen. Shadows blended out to irrelevance. In the few square yards hidden in the packed earth, time stood still. The one lone occupant, light, humidity, a bank of armored regulators and the waterless toilet were the only constants the space held. 

Music was pumped in irregularly, sometimes quieter than a whisper, sometimes at teeth jarring volume. Gregorian chants, symphonies, commercial ditties, punk ballads and even techno raves were turned on and off, softer or louder at random, driven by computer generated tables. The only limit was to not draw attention from the world above. 

A small device in the ventilation system allowed scents to be forced into the room. The unpleasant ones were obvious; sewer, old blood, sulfur, corpses. The pleasant had secondary effects; roses and lilies associated with rare social settings, soaps and detergents with the cleanliness the room and its occupant were sorely lacking, sugar biscuits and chocolate cakes made Pavlov’s dog howl in agony. When the scents were used, they were used sparingly so their power would not dilute.

Temperature control turned the minuscule chamber slowly from cold enough for breath to make clouds in the air to near sauna conditions, again at a completely arbitrary frequency. Never let the flesh settle or the mind would follow.

Food was delivered on a randomized schedule and in ever decreasing amounts. Water had disappeared almost entirely, but after a dangerous choking incident, had been recalibrated. Death was to never access that room, for a single death there would trigger dozens of deaths above. He had personally guaranteed it.

No one was to touch the electrical controls but Moran himself. A constant current ran through the door, the regulators, and the delivery mechanism. Not enough to do real damage, but enough to convince the occupant that freedom could not be achieved by such obvious routes. Wiring had been embedded across the small floor, and even across the lone bunk hung on the wall. He had intended to use it for sleep deprivation techniques, but they had proven ineffective. Now the electricity was used only to test the occupant’s alertness.

Moran had fast forwarded through the recording again and again, watching the occupant’s slight movements; on the bunk for thirty six hours, curled in a fetal ball, fists crossed before his face, rocking minutely. He switched back to the live camera. Food had remained untouched for six hours, but the poor quality wasn’t much of an incentive. What concerned Moran more was the ignored toilet. Kidney damage could ruin everything in a shockingly short time. A quick thermal scan showed that the bunk was efficiently drawing the occupant’s body heat away, but no shivering was visible. Moran tapped a few keys, triggering a short burst of “Ode to Joy” nearly as loud as a jet engine, but the occupant barely flinched. Adjustments would have to be made or the bait would be lost.

Sebastian tried to breathe past the sharp ache in his chest, a void nothing could ever possibly fill. Friend? Partner? Mentor? Lover? Soul mate? He could almost hear Jimmie laughing at him as he tried to pick a label for what they had been. For what they should still be. He snorted derisively at himself. One thing they had never been was equals. Jimmie had been amazing, brilliant, easily the most creative and insightful mind Sebastian had ever witnessed at work. There had been nothing that could frighten Jimmie and it made him impossible to resist. Jimmie dreamed and Sebastian found the ways to bring those dreams to life. 

The dreamer was gone now, but Sebastian remembered the dreams with painful clarity. One of the few things they had ever fought about was the occupant of that room. Jimmie had been obsessed with him directly while Sebastian saw him as a means to a possible end. Perhaps his time in the military had given him a different perspective. 

Either way, things had changed. He had always suspected Jimmie would leave him in the end, which made the next steps his to choose. Jimmie had loved the dance, but this was to be a route. He would crack the man in that room; use him as chum for the Iceman himself. Once the score was settled, the chum itself could be simply disposed of. Disposal would be his tribute to the fallen.

Movement on one of the gauges caught his attention. A microphone was picking up the first sounds made in more than a week. Sebastian turned up the speaker, curiosity pulling at him.

“582, 097, 494, 459, 230, 781, 640…” the voice was low, thick, and stiff with disuse.

It took a moment for Moran to fathom, but he suddenly laughed for the first time in months. If calculating pi was the best defense left, perhaps this would all be in motion soon.

 

This couldn’t go on forever. Sooner or later enough systems would shut down and the entire organism would give out. Breathing had gone raspy ages ago. Hunger had always been a familiar sensation but it had faded away to be replaced by a dull burning. Throbbing ache in various limbs and in shoulders where joints had separated under stress. Electrical charge leaving ashes in the mouth, prickling numbness echoing for days. Tongue sticking to roof of the mouth, lips sticking to teeth. Mind driven back, thought shattered until no focus remained. Poetic justice. Deception made real. Her help traded instantaneous for this prolonged exit. Don’t let the body be found. She would be the only one to understand. Don’t ever, ever let her know she had made it worse. Waves of nausea returning. Would they carry him away this time?

 

Wiggins watched her slight form seem to play peek-a-boo through the warehouse windows. It may have looked abandoned from the street, but he and his had known better. It was more like a rising anthill, entrances and exits made from various points, most hidden from view. Assaulting this particular fortress would be a nightmare, but the options were running out fast. No packages large enough to hold his body had left the warehouse. No fresh concrete had been poured in the broken mess of the basement floor. Odors had been noted but had dissipated too quickly to be traced down. It might still be too late, that’s why he had asked her for this surveillance attempt. His jaw hadn’t stopped grinding since her soft boots disappeared over the sill. Wiggins couldn’t lose her too.

It had been a full thirty days since he had disappeared inside. They had kept tabs on the ever-increasing activities without seeing him. He would have ridiculed their efforts, jeered their loyalties, but none of them would easily let him be taken from them. Memories ran long when they were all a person had left. He would know that, even if he lacked the faith to know rescue had to be tried. He was different but had never seemed to believe that different meant better. He had earned a measure of loyalty, wanted or not.

She silently slipped out a different window than she had entered, drawing her oversized bomber jacket close and moving toward the nearby park. She would draw no attention to where Wiggins had hidden himself, to any connection between them. Her loyalties were to Wiggins alone and no one would threaten her lover.

Her lover caught up with her beside a fountain. “Hello, beautiful Spyder.” he bent slightly, whispering into her jet hair, knowing her emerald eyes were alight. She must have had a different name once upon a time, before the damage had been done, but he had never known that person, only the tiny willowy form before him now. He wove the stolen daisy into the end of her braid.

Her smile was false, her eyes burning in a way he hadn’t anticipated. “The raven is in more trouble than you thought, my love. Special tools have been brought in. I’ve broken them, but the raven won’t live long enough to see the repairs.”

The word had given Wiggins a chill. “Tools?”

She leaned close, mouthing the word like a caress, intimate and familiar. “Electroshock.” Spyder smiled bitterly, easing away. “It won’t touch the raven, promise. I made sure it can’t touch anyone for a long time.”

“He is still there, then?” Wiggins fought the urge to wrap her tightly in what safety could be found and hide her from any who might hurt her again. He had that impulse before and she reacted badly to it.

“Hmmm…most of him.” Her eyes stared beyond the horizon. “Two sunsets left, maybe three and his clipped wings won’t keep him in the cage any more.” She returned to her lover’s arms. “We have to be clever before then or ignorant after. You’ve a preference, my love?”

“For you to stay out of it now?” he tried to laugh but it fell flat. Wiggins knew he’d given her a place in the plan as soon as he’d told her the tale of the disgraced knight. Fairy tales and an unnerving physical grace had been among the few things she had retained from whoever she had been before. Ballet, maybe. Acrobat? Aerialist? Wherever the skills had come from, they would be sorely needed.

She breathed against his lips. “I’d move without you if I had to. No cages. Not for the whitest doves or the blackest crows.” 

He kissed her then, desperate to capture this one moment before everything changed. She tasted of smoke and cola and boiled sweets. A breeze caught the hairs loosened from her braid, tickling his skin. “I love you, Spyder.”

 

628, 620, 899. The fuzzy edges bothered him the most. Retreating like this had always brought a clarity that was missing this time. All input had been stopped to preserve what tenuous hold remained. Some demand should have been made, yet none had arrived. 862, 803, 482. Being killed outright had been expected, even some level of torture had been anticipated, but this was without any justification. Nothing had been asked. A term floated up unbidden; tabula rasa, the blank slate. What possible benefit could that provide? 534, 211, 706. Thought processes were notably slowing, thought itself beginning to unravel. If the thoughts stopped, what would be left? No way to answer that question so it was discarded. If he stopped, what would be left? 79…

 

Molly tugged the loose disposable gloves back up her small hands, continuing to pass out the yeast rolls. She’d been tempted to bring some of her better fitting gloves from work, but crossing the sensations she experienced between the homeless shelter and the morgue just seemed like a very bad idea. 

It was strange that the shelter could be more heartbreaking than the morgue. True, death was final while those she met here moved on, but at least their lives held a chance to be better. She never could settle on which was the easier fate.

She had done some volunteer work from time to time, but since the Fall (she couldn’t think of it without capitalizing it), she was here twice a week. It had been the one thing Sherlock had asked of her and as always, she couldn’t refuse. She hadn’t understood it at the time, but it had proven to be invaluable in the strangest ways.

Wiggins, the one name Sherlock had left her, had found her in the first week, offering to do some handyman duties at her flat in exchange for food and cash. When he came over the first time, he swept her flat with an odd box, claiming to check for any bugs. He pulled some small bit from her phone, but she hadn’t been sure what it was. Sherlock had ordered, and paid for, Wiggins creating a “panic space” at the end of her hall. She had known her building had been an old Victorian mansion divided into flats, but she hadn’t realized the end of her hall had a large plastered-over linen closet. Wiggins pulled the plaster and shelves out, creating a false front that would open outward if pressed at the right spot. The following week, he wired in a light and a phone that was on a different circuit than the rest of the building. Per Sherlock’s request, she had given Wiggins a key, but she hadn’t seen him since. It felt vaguely like living in the Bat Cave.

Many times over the past year, a person in line for food had pressed envelopes or small resealable bags into her hand as they passed her. Most of the time she couldn’t guess the contents until she got the lab results back. She’d seal the results in fresh envelopes, wrap them in several pound notes, and wait until the same face would return to collect the same way. Twice the envelopes contained picture postcards, folded in thirds and without writing. They were her most prized possessions, yet she gave the one of the First World War trenches at Vimy Memorial Park to John Watson. It was an interest of his, even if she couldn’t explain the full meaning.

The tiny black haired girl caught Molly’s eye for a number of reasons, not the least of which was her diminutive size. Her bomber jacket was two sizes too big and the leather had seen better days. Her suede boots had to be a decade old yet had been brushed to an amazing clean. Denim jeans whose knees had given out long ago judging by the frayed edges. As she approached with her nearly empty tray, Molly saw the ragged and dirty bandage wrapped haphazardly around her right hand. Blood was visibly spreading through the stained cotton.

Molly grabbed her arm, passing the tray to Emma beside her and explaining she would give the small woman some proper first aid. She walked her over to the more private table at the back of the room that was more commonly used for counseling expectant mothers.

“My name’s Molly, by the way.” She unwrapped the filthy cloth carefully, unsure of the damage below. The wound wasn’t deep, was even remarkably fresh. Had she been cut like this here?

The small woman’s other hand gripped her hard. “Look to the door, Maid Molly. My lover waits.”

She looked up sharply to see Wiggins nod solemnly, and then leave. A very heavy weight seemed to settle in her stomach. This had to be bad. “Let me get the first aid kit, and then we can talk.”

“Understood.” She began pulling apart a roll, eating only the bits no crust clung to.

Molly began to daub the cut with peroxide. “Can I know your name?”

“Spyder.” A small smile disappeared quickly. “And I will call you Lenore.”

“Poe? Bit ominous.” Antibiotic cream applied with a cotton bud.

“Good evening for it. Have you seen the fog outside? Worst in a decade, they say. Do you have any gum? I’d like to blow bubbles.” Spyder watched her work with interest.

“Um, here.” She handed Spyder one of several small bags of sweets donated by a nearby school. “Did Wiggins want to give me a message?”

She watched Molly apply several butterfly bandages while she sorted through the sweet pile. Three pieces of obnoxiously fruity bubble gum were unwrapped in seconds. “I’m about to free your raven, fair Lenore. His wings are broken but not as badly as mine. Can you be ready?” The gum disappeared behind even teeth.

Molly’s mouth had gone totally dry. Spyder didn’t seem totally sane, but what she was saying… “How badly broken? Will he…” she hadn’t meant to ask but the words hissed out. At least she hadn’t said a name.

Spyder took the bandage wrappers out of Molly’s hands, turning the palms up and grasping her wrists. A smile grew on the smaller woman’s face as tears welled. “I will bring your raven home.” She whispered. “Wings heal. The rest is up to you. Be ready.”

“When?” Molly asked as Spyder stood. She cursed herself for being so loud. At least no one was looking.

“Go home, fair Lenore. Boring tellie calls. There will be a gentle tapping.” Spyder gave her a smirk. “But I may need to blow a bit first.” With a bubble growing from her lips, she left the shelter and the fog swallowed her whole.

Two hours later as Molly curled up with the television on; breaking news came of a warehouse fire near the Thames. Cameras were on site and what they saw chilled her to the bone. Most of the witnesses carrying on to get the camera’s attention were familiar to her from the shelter. She tried to dismiss it, but there were too many to be a coincidence. As she watched, an explosion shook the camera, knocking a few people to the ground. The witnesses and reporters were pushed back by a fireman yelling that a gas line had blown.

“Sherlock?’


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPECIAL NOTE: Nocturnias is once again blessing us by handling the SAMFAs. Show her efforts a little love; go vote per directions, and give her a big “thanks”! She’s more than earned it!

Spyder felt naked without the heaviness of her leather wrapped around her like armor. Wiggins was right; the grey hooded sweatshirt and worn denim of her jeans faded into the shadows of the supposedly empty building far better than the dull black hide and scratched buckles would. It just felt wrong, like she was exposed, and if she wasn’t careful, she’d expose the Raven. Exposure meant danger and he was already at enough risk.

Crossing the first floor to get to the defunct service elevator shaft was the problem. The intruders used the ruined brick building as a weigh station for anything better hidden. Previously she had seen massive amounts of narcotics, designer drugs, and third world knock offs of prescription medications, but trade had taken a recent upmarket swing. Electronics first, but now what could only be ammo and the weapons to use it. More guards were required, more of the unblinking cameras installed. She had even spotted and thwarted a few motion detectors, but all that was on the floors above, where a casual observer would never trip over anything alarming.

She had to be fast. Wiggins would start the fires soon. It may have been safer if they had waited, made a better plan, but Lady Fate had plans of her own. Spyder knew from bitter experience that the Raven couldn’t hold out much longer. Cameras were a constant threat and the fog she had been gifted with blunted their omnipresence. More cameras would come with the flames, but her lover told her he had that under control. Stupid TV people always bought a gaudy display over deeper substance. She had the scars to prove it.

She drew images in her mind; field of vision for the few security cameras still working on the first floor. She had broken three of them on her earlier visit, and their dead eyes no longer surveyed the space. The intruders wouldn’t waste time, effort or expense while the valuables were higher up.

Spyder drew her head deeper into the hood, making sure her black braid was hidden beneath the grey. She had crept halfway across the open space, staying where her mental picture said she was safe, when she suddenly heard music. The floor beneath her feet shook with it. A known piece, some memory trying to rise but strangled off. Two words made it through; Saber Dance. On sudden impulse, she held her arms aloft and finished crossing to the gaping hole in a series of flip flops. Fortunately the music stopped before she started down the maintenance ladder. No one should be on guard, but she needed her ears to tell.

She dropped the last few feet, landing in a crouch and peering through the dim light. A single bulb hung from a wire on the ceiling, sodium yellow patterns, flickering. A table strewn with empty water bottles and food wrappers entertained a few rodents. A metal doorway that hummed quietly to itself stood a few yards away. A mechanism not much larger than a pet door took up most of the bottom edge, the cup currently turned into the room beyond. 

Somehow it made her think of the Monolith, and she caught herself holding her breath as she approached it. A computer tablet lying on the floor nearby showed the inside of the room to whoever was to operate the cup. The Raven was still curled, his wings tight around him, but the rocking had stopped. Not good. Sleep was the safest thing that could have claimed him, but there were others.

Spyder took a moment to review the steps she had counted on the way. Her lover would cut the electricity to the building one minute before the fires were to begin. The intruders would panic, run for their prize. It would be better if she and the Raven were at least out of the basement before the fires grew too bright. Absently, she pulled a pillowcase free from the pouch in her sweatshirt. She tipped the desiccated bones over the tablet. No one knew whose bones they had been; they had been left orphaned under a bridge. Human, male, gathering them had saddened her until she realized this person’s final act would be a heroic one; misleading the wolves from their intended prey.

The overhead bulb made a very small snapping noise and the afterimage of the light danced in her vision. She drew the Monolith close like a religious relic, running her hands along the metallic surface in search of the handle. Spyder prayed she had been right and the lock was magnetic. She wouldn’t have time in the dark to find and disable hydraulic lines.

The entire front swung back like the door to a refrigerator. Stumbling in, she reached desperately for the bunk. She kicked the waterless toilet hard enough to bring tears to her eyes, but then she knew to lunge in the other direction. She found his calf first, her sudden grasp making him flinch. Blindly, she skimmed her palms along; knees, hip, ribs, elbows, shoulders, then finally his head, tucked down behind his fists. Wiggins had warned her that the Raven was taller than she’d been estimating, but the true impact came home to her now. Carrying or dragging him from this cell wasn’t an option; she’d have to force him to move. Her lover warned her he didn’t take force well.

The Raven would move for his Lenore! Higher pitch than her own voice, tightness from the same concern she would have for her own lover under similar conditions. Lenore’s words had stumbled as her passions rose. Spyder pulled the hood away from her head, freed her braid, wrapping it once loosely around her neck, the end dangling over her right shoulder as Lenore’s had done.

“Sher…Sherlock?” Imitating Lenore’s voice, Spyder tried pulling at his arm, but the one she could reach led to a dislocated shoulder. She pulled at his belt loops instead. “Sherlock, we have to go! I found us a way out, but we have to go now! Can you walk?” 

For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to respond at all and tried to think of an alternate plan. Maybe the Monolith could hold out the fire. Unseen in the dark, a hand swept over her face, then wrapped itself in the braid. She pulled at the loops again, feeling him slowly sitting up, sliding forward.

“The power’s gone bu…but I think I know where we are. We need to avoid the guards, okay? Can you stand?” In response he lurched forward and she barely caught him as his legs gave out more than they held. She started pulling him toward the door.

She counted silently, noticing he was trying to pull away from her even as they neared the ladder. She fumbled for his hands, noting further damage, but putting them on the first rungs. “You have to climb.” Convinced he had noted her deception; her voice was dropping back to her own tones. “I can’t carry you, and I won’t leave without you! Climb, damn you!”

She watched the space above her, hearing his movements in the dark. She could barely make out voices, was afraid they had taken too long, when suddenly the space above was filled with an orange glow. The fires were started and the race was on. She followed him off the ladder.

An alarm was ringing, seeming to rise from the guard’s mobile phones instead of the structure itself. It would be faster to try to get him out the front of the building, but the street cameras were too close by. She grabbed his arm, pulling him tight to a structural column. They inched around it as a few flashlight beams swung wildly in the direction of the open shaft. She watched several guards start down the ladder and tried to gesture to him to run for the back of the building. Wiggins had told her listening was also a skill he lacked.

She snatched up the piece of rebar she had spotted on the way in, wedging it between the ladder and the shaft. Three strong kicks wrenched the ladder loose and it dropped to the floor below. She grabbed his arm, trying to sprint, but his legs were still not cooperating.

A beloved shadow running toward them as they reached the point on the floor the music had come from. Wiggins got up under the Raven’s arm, lifting most of his weight from her. He was yelling at her to just come along, but she had waved them on.

She pulled Charlie’s gift from deep in her boot, unwinding the primer cord. Charlie always knew where the least protected building sites were. Guessing the burst of music had come from the Monolith, she placed the stick where she thought her gymnastics had started. She played out the cord, kneeling to light the fuse. Charlie promised her at least two minutes to get as far as she could. It would blow a hole into the chamber below. Searchers would find a set of bones, and the intruders would have to believe their captive had died. The many deaths of a dead man, she giggled.

She ran, glad she couldn’t see her lover ahead. If she couldn’t see them, perhaps the intruders couldn’t, either. The guards she could spot in the fog seemed more focused on unloading boxes and crates from above and into trucks, cars, and more of the abandoned spaces along this street. Authority would have a field day with whatever was left behind. 

Spyder stumbled slightly on a pile of loose bricks, trying to stay close to the outside of the warehouse wall until she could get far enough away to remain unnoticed. The Giant was on her before she could draw a breath.

He had grabbed her under the arms, lifted her like a small child. Some terrible recognition in his spit grey eyes. Pure instinct drove her foot into his solar plexus. She knew it wouldn’t have enough force to bruise his heart or tear his diaphragm, but it knocked the wind out of him and forced him to let go. She had knelt, reached for the switchblade sewn into her boot, screaming, impassioned for a jugular, when the dynamite finally exploded, and filled the air with sharpened dust.

 

Hallucinations. One of the problems with a prolonged death spiral was that it gave the mind too much time to become fanciful. Neanderthal instincts had tried to save the flesh only to damage it further. The shame of yielding to impulse, knowing his resources should have been better used. Now what little he had left was being drained playing silly buggers. There were illusions he would have at least found pleasant, a few memories worth returning to in the final moments. He could have even accepted some foolish list of things he was supposed to feel regret about, but this disjointed input was absurd. A tiny, impossibly elflike girl with insane emerald eyes and ruby streaks on her cheek smiling up at him as she moved his hand and elbow. An explosion of pain somewhere very far away closed the blackness around him.

 

The tapping, when it came, was so ethereal Molly almost missed it. She had left undone most of the security bolts earlier in the evening, prepared her elaborate first aid kit, kept a pot of broth warmed on the hob, water bottles lined up in the fridge and along a countertop. Not daring to hope, she opened the door without looking first.

Spyder had propped him against the door and Molly caught him as he fell into her flat. If shock hadn’t stolen her breath, Molly would have screamed. She had seen him bleed, seen broken bones he fought to ignore, a memorable concussion that seemed to trigger a four hour lecture jag as he fought off sleep to finish a case. Even his “death” hadn’t chilled her like this. Unprepared, she fell beneath him, angling to pad him from the tiled floor. She was catching Sherlock’s ghost.

Spyder carefully bent his knees, getting his feet out of the way so she could close and bolt the door. Poor Lenore! She had tried to warn her that her Raven would be less than whole. He was trying to protect his head with his arms again and Spyder found the switch, leaving the entryway lit only by the flickering television in Lenore’s lounge. “Kept in the dark.” Spyder hummed quietly. “Senses played with, short circuiting.”

He seemed to calm as Molly rolled from beneath him, searching out his eyes. They seemed undamaged, but they darted around the hall, focusing on nothing. She took the cue from the smaller woman, keeping her voice quiet and even. “Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me? You’re safe now, it’s okay.” No discernable response. The urge to scream was so strong, lash out, panic, curl in a ball and weep. Indulgences maybe she’d have later, but right now, he couldn’t afford it. “Where’s Wiggins?”

A smile tugged at Spyder’s lips. A proper match. “Backtracking, making sure we weren’t noticed or followed. He’ll be back when he’s sure. We should get your Raven cleaned up. He’ll be more comfortable that way.”

Molly stood. Trusting this insane girl seemed impossible. She wasn’t even supposed to trust his own brother, yet Spyder had brought him here. “See if you can get him sitting up. I’ll want to listen to his lungs later. I’ll go run a bath.”

She closed the door before turning on the light, not wanting to brighten the hallway. Molly had always kept scented candles in jars for when she felt the need for a long soak. She turned on the water, adjusted the temperature cooler than she would normally use to keep from shocking him. She retrieved a couple bottles of hydrogen peroxide from under the sink and poured them in. She had never seen him so frighteningly pale. His skin would need almost as much help as a wound. The contents of a small bottle of baby wash foamed in the running water. She kept it on hand for the few occasions she’d gotten sunburned. When the tub was filled, she turned the water off; glad the door would muffle the sound of the air hammer in her hot water taps.

When her eyes adjusted to the low light of the hallway, Molly froze, watching. Spyder had obviously gotten into the first aid kit and retrieved a syringe without a needle on it. She had filled it from one of the water bottles and was using it to get small amounts past his unmoving lips, using her other thumb, rubbing from the outside, loosening them. 

She seemed startled, seeing Molly stare. “He’s dehydrated. Soft tissues would tear if he tried to drink now.”

An icy fist settled in Molly’s stomach. “Someone did this to you.” It wasn’t a question.

“Don’t ever ask me that.” the small woman’s voice went eerily flat. “You can’t ever ask that or I’ll have to leave.” A tremor started across her shoulders.

Molly remembered Spyder’s words from earlier at the shelter: “His wings are broken but not as badly as mine.” Another word, a word for both of them tried to push its way up in her mind, but she shoved it away, unable to bear it. “I’ll get the stethoscope.”

\- Next chapter within forty eight hours. Pax.


	3. Chapter 3

A small infection seemed to have settled into his upper respiratory system, but there was no deeper rattle that would have indicated pneumonia. Molly sat back on her heels with a sigh. “Any other physical problems I should know about?”

Spyder had gone to feeding him the water directly, her eyes watching closely that he swallowed before she gave him more. “His right shoulder was dislocated. I popped it back in without too much trouble, so I think it must have been out before. His first right finger and second and third left fingers were much harder, but he had passed out, so I put them back as well.”

“He should have all that braced, taped up.” Molly knew she had the materials once they got him clean. She held her hand up against the water bottle. “Give him a little time; let his stomach get used to it. How long has he been like this?” She knew she didn’t want the answer.

“My lover would know. He only showed me where the Raven was two days ago.” Spyder shrugged. “I would guess three weeks, maybe four if the Giant was careful as always.”

“You knew Sherlock before? You’re part of the network?” Molly started trying to figure out how to move him without straining his shoulder. Getting him out of his clothes was going to be a logistical nightmare. His usual buttoned shirts would have been easier on his shoulder than the t shirt he currently had on. Small blessing that the jeans were now too big on him. 

Spyder had already pulled off his trainers and socks. “Media games. ‘Boffin’ Detective’, ‘Suicide of Fraud’. Should have been ‘Fraudulent Suicide’!” She giggled briefly. “Sorry. My lover says I have a macabre sense of humor.”

“That’s okay; me, too.” She gave the smaller woman a wisp of a smile. “If you can get him around the waist, I think I can get under his arm and we can get him in the bathroom.”

It took several false starts and one near collapse, but they got him leaned up against a towel rack. Spyder kept him upright while Molly shook out a bath wrap, draping it around his waist. She shrugged at Spyder’s questioning glance. “This is how I used to help my dad bathe after he couldn’t do it on his own. I know it’s dumb, but you have no idea how this would embarrass Sherlock.”

“He’s still in here, Lenore. He’ll come out and play eventually.” Spyder smiled gently. “Better to treat him like he’s taking notes. Can you take him for a moment?”

Molly barely got under his arm as Spyder dropped, something flashing in her hand. The ripping sound startled her, but in seconds the jeans were pooling on the floor. Spyder lifted his foot, pulling the remains away. She stood, slitting the t shirt with the knife, and then ripping it up his right side. She repeated it, cutting the sleeve, pushing the shreds to Molly to finish removing. She leaned in, conspiratorially, whispering. “Commando.”

Molly ignored the comment, more concerned with places she could see that his skin had reddened, inflamed. At least his damaged shoulder showed no bruising. Spyder must have gotten it back in the socket without pinching the surrounding muscle tissue. The clothes were a total loss anyway. She shifted her grip to around his waist. “Can you get his feet?”

Getting him into the tub was more of a controlled drop than a lift, but they managed not to send a wave flooding the bathroom. With her father, Molly would have pulled the towel out, bubbles covering his modesty, but she didn’t want to risk abrading Sherlock’s already irritated skin. She used an old measuring cup to pour the soapy water over his shoulders and neck, desperately trying not to look in his face. The few glances she’d already taken showed his eyes were still clouded, unsettled, unfocused. Spyder might think he was still in there, but she couldn’t see any sign. His eyes hadn’t been that empty when he had been stretched out on her slab. The fact that they were still moving only made it more heartbreaking, unnerving.

The word floated across her mind, in his missing voice. “Transport.” She locked the sob down roughly. She couldn’t begin to guess the amount of mass he’d lost. As much as that frightened her, she knew where his concern would be; his mind. His transport was here, but she had no idea where the rest of him might be. 

Long ago, John had given her an explanation of what he called ‘Sherlock’s Mind Palace’. She hadn’t been able to stop herself from picturing it as some kind of medieval fortress, complete with battlements, moats and drawbridges. She used to kid herself that she could see him deciding what made its way across the water and what didn’t. Now it was far too easy to visualize it with the drawbridge up, battlements abandoned, the barbican unmanned. 

Spyder drew close; carefully easing the cup from Molly’s shaking hand. “It took the thunder to drive me away forever.” She brought Molly’s fingers up to a slab of old scar tissue hidden beneath the onyx hair at her temple. “The thunder echoed at his door, but it never touched him, Lenore, I promise. Wiggins told me how stubborn the Raven is. He protected himself with all his skill and he will come back to you. You just have to give him time to see the cage is far behind.”

Molly reached and Spyder allowed her to run her fingers across the matching scar on the other side of the smaller woman’s head. Only one thing she could think of would cause those puckered circles. Blindly, she dove into his curls, searching. Nothing. She forced her breathing to slow, her attention drawn again to Spyder. “You’re bleeding. Your cheek, a little on your neck. Do you need…?”

“You believe me now.” Spyder smiled. “I’ll be fine. Always am. Why don’t you get him some clothes and I’ll try to untangle his hair. I’ve had some experience with knots.” She lifted the end of her braid.

“How did you know?” Molly paused at the door. “How did you know I believe you?”

The smile grew. “You noticed someone else was in the room.”

 

Everything was too loud, too bright. Focusing on individual noises was impossible, let alone what sounded miraculously like voices. Color had returned to his vision, screaming in intensity. Large smeary reds, yellows flickering. There had been a sharp pain, searing in intensity, but it had faded away into the dark, leaving a vague stiffness in its wake. He wanted to scream, break someone, but that hadn’t gone well last time. Better to hold on, bide his time. Things seemed to be easing, but he couldn’t make himself trust it. Some viscosity against his fingertips. Spheres with rainbow skins. Flames? No, candles; the flames were somewhere else. Swallowing had eased to less than tormenting. He wanted to curl back up, protect, but small hands were touching him, preventing it. One set of hands belonged to an image out of the Brothers Grimm: ‘Skin white as snow, lips red as blood, and hair black as ebony.’ Fairytales had already been the death of him once. The other set of hands snatched life out of death’s maw…no. Not possible. She always saw him, but she wasn’t looking now. Don’t let her look. Spare her this one heartbreak.

 

Molly wrapped his damaged left fingers together gently in the tape, careful to not to limit his circulation. They should brace each other effectively enough. After helping her get Sherlock onto her couch, Spyder had talked her out of trying to bandage his shoulder. Anything that could be perceived as restraining him might drive him farther away. If he somehow jarred the shoulder out again, Spyder swore she’d get it back in the socket.

Wiggins let himself in with the key Molly had given him. Spyder ran to him, burying her face in his shoulder, humming brokenly. For a moment, Molly wondered if the smaller woman’s bravado had been an act to try to keep her spirits up. No, she’d been worried about him.

“It’s okay, beautiful. Lot of noise, lot of smoke, but I never saw your giant, promise.” Wiggins was rubbing between her shoulder blades. “How’s the Raven been? Take good care of him?”

Molly stood as Spyder led him over. Wiggins gave Molly a subtle nod, recognizing she had questions but knowing how scarce answers were. “Spyder?” Molly folded the end of the tape over so it would unroll easier next time. “That pot of broth should have cooled by now. Think you could use that syringe trick again? No more than a cup, though, okay?”

Spyder nodded. “He could use the salt.” She gathered the needed supplies and perched on the edge of the coffee table.

Wiggins was waiting a bit down the hall. Molly grabbed his elbow in a grip usually reserved for first year students attempting to walk out with pockets full of free needles. “What the hell happened?” she hissed.

“You can just talk, Doctor. I swept for bugs two days ago.” Wiggins had the grace to look chagrinned.

Her mind hiccupped over the hundreds of questions that statement raised. She’d come back to it later. “Sherlock has been tortured.” She choked on the word. “What the hell did he get in the middle of?”

“You think he let me in on it?” His own anger was flaring. “He told me to meet him, bring him a handgun. He went strolling off into that warehouse and didn’t come back out! I was supposed to leave him there, but I just couldn’t. Then Spyder found out and…”

Molly leaned against the wall, her head dropping back on the plaster. Of course Sherlock hadn’t told anyone. The only person he ever confided in about such things thought he had died months ago. He wouldn’t have made any backup plan; just assumed he’d been on his own as he’d been most of his life. So wrong, but he never seemed to understand it. She took a deep breath, pursed her lips, blowing slowly. “Who was using that warehouse?”

Wiggins shook his head. “Too many people in and out to tell. I think half the organized crime in London was keeping some kind of stash there. Spyder was the only one of us who could keep going in and out without getting caught. If she hadn’t found him in the basement, done the whole recon, I don’t think he’d have ever gotten out. She…she knew what they were doing to him, wouldn’t let him end up like her.”

“How does she know him?” Molly didn’t want to be suspicious of his rescuer, but she couldn’t take the chance, not when he couldn’t defend himself. “And why ‘the Raven’? His own name not distinctive enough?”

“Spyder never calls anyone important by name except me. She makes up code names, like she’s hiding identities from someone. She’s called him the Raven as long as I’ve known her. If she gets scared, she goes to see the ravens at the Tower of London, loves the legend that if they leave the Tower, England will fall. I don’t know, maybe it was that damned coat.”

“But they’ve never met?” Molly had thought ‘Lenore” was just a Poe reference. It had been Spyder’s way of making her important.

“No.” Wiggins was emphatic. “When I saw she was keeping press clippings, looking up his blog at the library, I offered to introduce her. She didn’t talk to me for days. She ran the whole length of King’s Cross Station just to avoid him once. I even put off asking her to go into that warehouse, thinking she’d refuse if she knew he was inside.”

“And the Giant, who’s he?” 

“No idea. Tonight’s the first I’ve heard of him.” Wiggins eyes shadowed with concern. “We got separated getting Sherlock away from the building. When she caught up to us, she just kept saying that the Giant had come back, the Giant was going to finish the job, but she wouldn’t explain. He’s why I went all the way back there. I thought maybe I’d see some big guy in the crowd, but no such luck.”

“Lenore?” Spyder called softly. “The Raven isn’t going to sleep on this couch. Can we move him to your bed?”

“Is the couch too short?” This wasn’t the first time Molly cursed having bought a sleeper sofa. The building her flat was in made moving some larger furniture pieces through doorways practically impossible. The sofa had been one of the few that could be moved past her front door.

“He doesn’t know where he is. He’s unsettled.” Spyder shrugged.

“I don’t see how my room would help.” Molly muttered, missing the smaller woman’s eye roll. “Wiggins, want to give me a hand?”

The two of them maneuvered him down the hallway while Spyder ducked past into the room, pushing Molly’s duvet aside and switching on the hardly-used bedside lamp. To be safe, Spyder pulled the alarm clock from the wall socket. 

As she and Wiggins got him atop the mattress, Molly was rattled by how little he looked like the man she knew. Her oversize track pants and a battered old work shirt of her father’s would be replaced tomorrow once she had a chance to get somewhere she could buy men’s clothes discretely. He could put the weight back on, but it would be easier if he could help. The bandages would be removed as soon as she was sure his joints stabilized. Maybe tomorrow Wiggins could give him a shave. Molly had cut her father once like that and wasn’t brave enough to try again. If she couldn’t reach his mind, she’d at least take care of the transport.

Molly dropped into the chair she used for reading as Wiggins rejoined Spyder at the door. She’d call in to work in a few hours, take what holiday she could get in the spur of the moment. Leaving him like this was not an option.

Spyder gave her a small wave, and then pointed to the bed.

Sherlock spent a few moments staring down at the pillow beneath his head before his eyes darted elsewhere. A few seconds later, he repeated the process. After the fourth cycle, he reached up, wrapping his fingers in the case, his eyes drifting shut.

Molly held her breath. It was the first independent move he’d made since they’d gotten him in the door.

Spyder drew close, whispering. “He knows your scent, Lenore. Safety. He’s starting to make choices again.” A pause. “Can we use your couch?”


	4. Chapter 4

Procuring the proper outerwear from a nearby fire vehicle was almost absurdly easy. A scene was only ever as secure as the least observant official present. As far as anyone knew, this warehouse was simply derelict, nothing to be damaged by the fire but years of accumulated debris. Until the most sensitive boxes above were identified, this scene was as secure as a public toilet. Moran wouldn’t have very long, but he should have long enough.

The giveaway had been the electricity being cut off before the fire had truly begun. His cameras should have sent clear images of the flames long before the wiring had burnt through. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw the hole blown in the first floor. None of the ammo above had detonated, and even if it had, the coincidence that it would rupture a hole into the vault was beyond imagining. 

Not believing in coincidence, Moran climbed down a fire ladder to the basement below. The vault door was flung wide, but the explosion could have done that once the locks were turned off. More interesting was the small pile of bones currently cordoned off awaiting evidence technicians. Dry, disassembled, scattered, skull missing entirely. Those bones did not come from his trophy; he was sure of it. Clever attempt, though. If he hadn’t looked himself; had instead waited for the official reports, he would have assumed his trophy was the unidentified body in the basement.

He made his way upstairs, checking his mental inventory against what remained in the charred rooms. If the idiots he hired had let the trophy get away, maybe they had at least gotten most of the other valuable property away from the flames. For a moment, he dared hope, and then his eye fell on a very large box of exotic triggers. Damn. Even Scotland Yard wouldn’t be dense enough to mistake those as common devices. They’d be pulled out of the building as soon as MI5 arrived. He slipped off into the shadows, his credentials never questioned.

 

The silence alone snapped him awake. Long silence meant the cacophony was due any minute and he had to be braced for it. The one protest he had left against his captors was not reacting, not responding, not giving them what little he knew they wanted. He fought to not move, keep his breathing shallow.

Molly was…why was Molly here? Curled up, sleeping in a tatty chair he knew hadn’t been in this place before. Wisps of her hair that had escaped the elastic were framing her exhaustion, moving as she breathed. If she were really here, her tiredness would be the least of his worries. No, she was an illusion, and he couldn’t say if it was better or worse than the hallucinations that had come before. Painful, bittersweet. She was safe, they were safe, and that was the important thing. She could take care of them far better than he had. They would protect her far better than he could.

Something unfinished, a vow he’d never forged into words. Words were too fragile to hold his intent. Nerve, bone, the salt of blood and tears, but never flimsy, misinterpreted language. The vow was gone now, melted in his palm like snow. Molly, braver than she’d ever know, had dared name it and he’d failed her. She’d forgive him, he never doubted it, but didn’t deserve it. All his cleverness, all his skills and he couldn’t find his way home.

He wanted to tell her, too much, far too late. Without thought, he reached, hoping she would know he tried; he would have answered her if he could. A shadow falling on her curled legs. That was always the problem, wasn’t it?

Unconsciousness pulled him under again, but he thought he’d heard his name.

 

John Watson paused in his note taking, hearing his next patient cursing a blue streak. The tone was unique, even if the language was practically universal. Soldiers swore as a matter of tradition, but some of the homeless seemed to want to make it an art form.

The office intranet displayed the right file just as the patient closed the consulting room door behind him. Paul Morrison, 23, no previous medical conditions, but a short history of narcotic seeking behavior. He wanted treatment for burns and a sprained ankle. 

The smell reached him before he’d even looked up at the patient; melted plastic, concrete dust, burned hair. “Were you at that warehouse fire? The one on the news?” John asked, gesturing to the exam table.

“Supposed to be a party.” Paul winced as he lifted his injured leg beside him onto the table. “Bloody Wiggins and his bright ideas! ‘C’mon down and play with TV people’, he said.”

That was a name John hadn’t heard in a long time, not since… “How is Wiggins, anyway? Last I heard he was trying to get back on the grid, into a job with a little security or at least a roof.” He looked over the marks on Paul’s arms. Most were first degree burns, but a few were second. No bandages required, but he’d prescribe some crème.

“That was before that freak came along.” Paul must have seen some change in John’s expression so he sped on. “He took up with this girl, some foreigner. Barely any accent, so don’t ask me from where. Crazy, seriously demented. Keeps getting chased off, doing handstands on Tower Bridge! Bring ‘em down on us all, she will!”

John waited for Paul to finish taking off his trainer and sock. “This girl has a name?” Maybe he’d look Wiggins up, just to see how he really was. It was another part of Sherlock’s life he’d been reluctant to approach since his death. One more area he’d felt powerless.

Paul barked a laugh. “Not really! He’s got some stupid pet name for her, though. Creepy girl! Wouldn’t surprise me if she started the damned fire in the first place!”

 

He had desperately wanted to close his eyes as the wind howled past, but knew he didn’t dare. No rehearsals and no retakes. The nightmare elongated the memory, stretching the distance for mile after mile. That moment when he thought his heart had actually stopped, held for hours, until he thought his ribs would implode.

He snapped awake, would have collided with her if she hadn’t grasped his shoulder and locked her arm, following his motion as he sat up. Her eyes, so heartbroken, yet so infinitely strong. That was how he thought of his Molly; rushing in where angels feared to tread. She was speaking to him, but the howling hadn’t faded and he couldn’t understand her. He shook his head in confusion and she stopped. 

The tears, oh god. If his mind had to magic her here, couldn’t he be spared that much? Too many tears already to ever be made up for. Every one he had ever suspected burned. He wanted to ask her to stop, it wasn’t worth it, he wasn’t worth it, but the words he wanted to express failed as badly as the words his mind wouldn’t take in. 

She pulled slightly away from him as he laid back, the room beginning to spin to the left. It was then that he saw her hands, fists curled tight, nails driven deep in her palms. A slight tremble as her muscles stayed rigid. It flooded him like a cool balm; she wasn’t weeping for something he had unthinkingly done some forgotten promise or misspoken word. She was angry for him. Angry for the pain, the hunger, the thirst. Angry for the unanswered shouts and unheard pleas. Angry for the horrible little cell he was sure was to be his tomb. 

He took one of her hands in his, carefully loosening her fingers until they straightened. He traced the four half moons embossed in her palm. Even an illusion of her couldn’t be left like this. He wove his fingers between hers, then his other hand around the whole. With any luck, she would never really know the truth. He slipped away again.

 

Viktor Andrasko did his best to pace in an office entirely too small for the job. Irritation burned, goaded at him. The only peace he had ever made with his one previous failure was the knowledge that the information had gone to the grave, never to be revealed to anyone. Now that he knew that was not the case, he was furious, desperate to begin the chase, even if the client himself could no longer gain the benefit. Pride was involved, reputation. Leverage against the client’s successor; the fool who accepted an office far smaller than his stature deserved.

Moran dropped his overcoat onto a long couch and began rolling up his sleeves. “Tell me the tale again, from the beginning, including the parts you’ve skipped over.” He took up station at his desk, the various monitors coming back to life, some showing his own cameras, some patched into the government feeds. It was amazing what you could find if you just bothered to look. MI5 should have arrived on scene by now and the delay intrigued him. Had the trophy left a message behind? He couldn’t find one, hadn’t had much time to look, but that didn’t mean none was to be found.

He took his time lighting his cigar while Andrasko droned on, his eyes never leaving the screens. It sounded like another of Jimmie’s beloved fairy stories, full of imperiled damsels, fallen heroes and hidden treasures. How a man of his genius could get so caught up in children’s rhymes and bedtime stories was one of the few things Sebastian had never understood. 

“Venovat pozomost!” Andrasko slammed a fist into the desk. “Show some respect! This entire enterprise was built on the work I did for him! You would have nothing now without his plans and my skills!”

“But you blew it, didn’t you?” Sebastian smiled crookedly. “You let the key escape without opening the lock. Sloppy, Viktor. How much did that little error cost in the end? Is that why Jimmie didn’t really trust you?”

Andrasko looked stricken. “He pushed too hard, wanted answers too quickly. The child would rather have died. I…we thought she had.”

Moran opened the file that had been left on the desk, fanned out the still photographs taken from the security recordings of the now ruined warehouse. Jimmie always hated unfinished business and he knew he would give Andrasko some amount of time to complete the earlier work. The girl was too small to have created much of a problem. Her information was really no longer needed. A shot from a reasonable distance would be the end of it.

A single image stilled his hand. The time/date stamp showed it was from yesterday’s footage. Her slim form halfway down the ladder into the basement. What the hell would she have wanted with his trophy? “Find her. Bring her here. Watch her first, though. She may be with Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Coughing wracked him, dehydration still playing havoc with his body. He vaguely remembered choking, someone else pushing their way into the cell and performing the Heimlich maneuver. He had lost too much breath at that point to try to break his way free, cursed himself a fool for his weakness. A prime opportunity that had gotten away from him. The last chance he thought he had, wasted.

Molly was still here, concern still blazing in her eyes. She held a small bottle of water out to him and his hand shook as he took it. Lukewarm, stale, but it was still one of the best flavors he could ever remember. Another deep drink and the burning in his throat subsided. He stared at the bottle in shock, his grip loosening. The smallest sliver of doubt crept in, starting a chain reaction. 

Her robe hanging on the back of the door, pink, terry cloth, burn on the right sleeve from her electric kettle. Beaten hardback copy of “Jane Eyre”, dog-eared on the bedside table. Too many perfume bottles lined up atop her dresser, most not suiting her but too expensive for her to want to throw away. Small mould stain in the ceiling in the corner where her old building’s roof needed repairs.

He reached out carefully, cupping her jaw and drawing her close. One gold mote in the suede brown of her left eye and three in her right. No hallucination. Not in the cell. He’d only spent a few hours in her flat before, shouldn’t remember it in this detail. He’d never been able to delete the motes.

She was speaking, so slowly, but his mind was only processing the occasional word; free, safe, rescue, home. He shut his eyes tight, curled his fingers in her hair. Not safe; not if Moran was still out there. He needed to think, needed to plan. She had to be kept safe, this brave, insane woman who just saved him yet again.

He eased her down, drawing the duvet over them both. Let the rest swirl away for a bit. She would anchor him while he slept, while he tried to find a way to save them both.

 

Mycroft Holmes had already pushed aside the warm duvet and gotten to his feet before he was awake enough to lift the receiver. One of the benefits of a trusted staff was the knowledge that if that particular phone rang, something truly required his immediate attention. “Yes, Anthea?” Where had his slippers disappeared to?

“Sorry to wake you, sir, but one of your red flags has appeared within London itself.” Even over the line, her concern was evident; tightness in her voice that indicated it was a red flag to her as well.

He blinked blearily at the alarm clock. Morning had begun for most, but he had only been asleep for a couple of hours. Boredom and a long rest would have been a delight. He cast one last longing look at the rumpled bedclothes. “What is it?”

“Dentrazi detonators. An entire crate of them, perhaps as many as fifty, has been found in the remains of a warehouse fire.”

Mycroft’s blood frosted. He didn’t need to review any notes. Dentrazi detonators were the mark of a passionate stupid amateur or a desperate smart professional. The only one he had ever seen, the only one ever known previously to have been on British soil, had been hand delivered by an Interpol agent to his personal office. 

The design was simple enough to be cheaply produced by anyone with enough chemistry knowledge. The Dentrazi was supposed to be activated by a coded text message sent to an attached mobile phone, but the design had proven to be far too sensitive. Once activated, it could be set off by any mobile phone signal coming too close. Each had the ability to trigger a large amount of several explosive agents. As long as the user wasn’t too particular about a specific target, a Dentrazi could cause a large body count at little expense. A thing nightmares could be built upon.

Coffee would be an immediate requirement. “Seize control of the scene. No one in or out unless they’ve been thoroughly debriefed. Fire, police personnel, all of them. Clear the media from a two mile radius. Get Thompson in for a complete inventory of the warehouse contents, burned or otherwise. Get Acosta in to check for security apparatus. No one would leave a shipment like that unattended.”

“Already in progress, sir.” Anthea assured him. “One other note? It is currently Detective Inspector Lestrade’s crime scene.”

Mycroft rested his forehead on his hand. This day was not shaping up well. Better a preemptive strike. “Please ask the Detective Inspector around to my office before any rivalries can flare up.”


	5. Chapter 5

All she could smell anymore was ozone, like the terrifying seconds too close after a lightning strike. Running, her heartbeat too loud in her ears, the slapping of her bare feet on linoleum. Pushing the hair out of her face with blood covered, throbbing hands. Trying to turn the corner, but the film of dust made her slide a little. A cool draught where the robe opened in the back. The doors ahead were chained together, the padlock new enough to shine. Her eyes darted to a small red box on the wall; maybe the fire alarms were still hooked up. No tiny hammer on the end of the chain, so she broke the glass with her fist, pulled the plastic handle; nothing. She slid down the wall, exhaustion catching up to her. If there had been a fire axe, she would have taken it to the chain, padlock be damned. Someone had emptied out the axe, hose and extinguisher when they left.

She saw the Giant down the corridor, sweating, and picking up speed like an oncoming train. She’d gone too far this time. No mercy would be offered or considered. She launched herself across the floor on her knees, trying to push enough space between the chained doors to wriggle through. Maybe if she were lucky, she’d push him far enough to kill her this time.

He pulled her across the floor by her ankle, rolling her over and kneeling on her chest, restricting her breathing. She swung wildly, her hands too wet for purchase. Two sharp, numbing slaps and he was lifting her limp body by his hand clenched in her hair, her feet blindly searching for the floor.

A door farther down the corridor opening and closing too softly. The shuffle of leather soles. A deep, almost sympathetic sigh, then a sing song voice. “Daddy’s had enough now.”

Spyder’s eyes snapped open, shattering the dream and sending the fine fragments back into the void where her memories once were. Wiggins was tight behind her, his arms wrapping her and holding her hands firmly until they began to relax from resembling claws. He whispered, humming just behind her ear, assuring her she was safe, no one could ever trap her again, the fight was far behind. She wanted to believe that, had spent a decade telling herself that, but within had always known that was a lie. Killing time, waiting for those huge hands to drag her back. Soulless eyes of a doll, asking for everything when she could remember nothing. 

She rolled in his arms, burrowing her face into his shoulder, drawing solace from his scents of sandalwood and amber. Her head throbbed a bit; she usually held her breath during nightmares, afraid of screaming, and it gave her a headache. Spyder kissed along his jaw line while slipping from his arms. She needed to pace, to put movement between herself and the slivers of memory still able to draw blood. 

 

TE/TE/TE

 

Smiling, Moran stirred the cream in his coffee, never taking his eyes off the video feed from the second floor. Some evidence tech, tall, thin, dark haired, was bouncing a wooden crate of chemicals on his hip. If Jimmie were here, they’d be trading bets as to whether the fool would drop the box, mixing the bottles contents when they shattered on impact and starting a secondary fire. Got to love the Met.

A long line of shining black cars pulled up outside the warehouse. He checked his watch, amazed it had taken them this long to claim the building. Maybe he shouldn’t be too surprised; they still hadn’t figured out that the mirror-like polishing job on their vehicles was an instant identification. 

“Mr. Moran?” The smaller man in the jersey seemed to be crawling into himself to try to appear even smaller. “Mr. Moran, we’ve went over all the security footage. All we found of your guest was these.” He spread out a set of fuzzy, grainy images showing a darker lump on a lighter background. The details of the outside of the building were unperceivable in the fog. Even looking at the signatures showing which image was from which camera only showed the lump moved away from the river and deeper into London proper. One thing was certain, though. His trophy had help, maybe even a tiny feminine key that had bought his freedom. He’d have to monitor Viktor’s progress carefully. 

“Go over the news footage.” Moran glared. “Match witnesses with names. If we have to do this the hard way, I want the name of every single body on site as my property burned.”

Wild gestures on the monitor showing the rear of the warehouse caught his attention. Moran looked closer, a feeling of familiarity passing over him. He almost laughed. Of course! He couldn’t remember the officer’s name; only that he thought the salt and pepper hair reminded him of a silverback. The officer was clearly not happy, protesting strenuously. What could have yanked his chain that hard? The officer stomped off, still gesturing, now yelling at a uniformed cop who jumped into a car and sped away. 

Lestrade. The silverback’s name was Lestrade. Sebastian did laugh then; sure Jimmie would have loved this. The Detective Inspector didn’t want to share another crime scene with a Holmes! The investigations must have burned his little hands, poor dear! A dance with the Iceman might be just what he needed.

He stabbed the button on his intercom. “Tell Mr. Walsh to pull together the documents on the warehouse and meet me in the lobby. I think we need to attend a caveman ritual at Scotland Yard.”

 

TE/TE/TE

 

Molly waited as long as she thought she could before carefully easing from under the duvet and out of her room. As wondrous as it had been, she wasn’t kidding herself. He was wounded, confused, and not any where near the man she knew. She’d treasure the memory but harbor no illusions. She swung the door around behind her without latching it, wanting to hear if Sherlock started to wake up. 

Wiggins stood propped against the door to her kitchen, shirtless and nearly pleading for the coffee to brew. The fold away couch had been reassembled and Spyder paced back and forth in front of it, her face void of any emotion. She must have felt Molly’s eyes on her because she looked up briefly, a sympathetic smile hinted on her face before she resumed pacing.

Molly poured Wiggins the first cup and he swallowed it down, hot and plain. “Can you to go get Sherlock some clothes, maybe an electric razor? I hate to ask, but I don’t think I should leave him just now.” She added milk to her own coffee, carefully adding an ice cube to try to cool it enough to drink quickly. “I don’t have much cash, but you could take my card. I don’t even know his sizes.”

“S’okay.” Wiggins nodded. “I used to help get his disguises together. I can fake it. Can you keep an eye on her, as well, then? Rough night. I think she’s doing the flashback thing.”

“Do you know what happened to her?” Molly spoke barely above a whisper. “Has she ever given you the details?” She sipped gingerly at her coffee, still trying to get an idea of what it might take to get Sherlock through this. She wished she could think of someone to call, ask for advice. She kept coming back to her promise.

“I know bits and pieces. She talks in her sleep sometimes.” He pulled the jumper on over his head. “Truth be told, I don’t think she remembers much. Too painful to hold onto, I guess.”

She dug in her purse, pulling out a small wallet. Molly handed Wiggins her debit card. “Get some food, too. Milk, sugar, maybe some of those kit dinners I can throw together quickly.”

“Lenore?” Spyder poured her own cup, half coffee and half milk. “Shouldn’t you get patches as well? The Raven will have been away long enough for the flesh to clear, but the spirit will crave.”

“No.” Molly shook her head. “I don’t want a big new purchase like that suddenly showing up in my records. I used to have to buy cigarettes for my father. If Sherlock wants nicotine, I’m afraid he’ll have to do it the old fashioned way for a bit.”

Wiggins grinned, opening the bolts on her flat door. “I know his usual!”

 

TE/TE/TE

 

Mycroft closed his eyes, the taste of ashes in his mouth, the sense of inevitability pulling at him again. It had taken him only moments to recognize what the documentation showed and what was hidden beneath. An ending, no matter how high the price, had obviously been too much to hope for. 

He took his tea to the window, absently wishing it wasn’t too early for a brandy. With the head gone, the coils had been loosening, dying. He was sure of it. In his more fanciful moments he’d even thought of his brother as some vengeful disembodied wraith, the pirate he’d dreamed of being, cutting through the numbers, watching as the web ripped apart under its own weight. Wishful thinking.

He had stopped on his way into his office to check the guarded vault in the sub basement. Absolute zero maintained by an independent generator. Samples were kept off site for identification purposes. It was foolish, but occasionally he craved the reassurance of knowing precisely where that body lay. 

“Sir?” Anthea broke his train of thought. “Detective Inspector Lestrade just had Sebastian Moran picked up for questioning.”

 

TE/TE/TE

 

Molly searched the cabinet for a bottle of paracetamol, the mobile pressed firmly to her head. “Sally, I promise. I gave Wiggins my card to use so he could get a few things. He’s been very helpful and I owe him for a number of jobs he’s done.” She rolled her eyes as Spyder tried not to giggle.

The other woman seemed obsessed with the sound of her own voice. Sally Donovan was ninety percent law enforcer and ten percent human being. Molly thought that was great when criminals were being caught, but sometimes the woman stuck her nose in where it didn’t belong.

“I’m ill, Sally. I’ve already called Mike to get the next few days off. Can’t you just let him go? I’m not going to file charges!”

Spyder had grabbed the pad Molly left on the counter for taking notes. She scribbled a few lines in small block script, turning it for Molly to read. “Go and get him. If the Raven wakes, he’ll need to eat. I’ll take care of him, promise.”

Molly added beneath. “Are you sure? I don’t want him to think I left him.”

Spyder smiled. “Easier than rescuing him. He’ll know you’ll be back; your flat. I’ll show him this.”

“All right. I’ll be there as fast as I can. Have Wiggins ready when I get there.” Molly shoved the mobile in her pocket.

 

TE/TE/TE

 

Greg Lestrade tapped the edge of the file in his palm as he entered his office. He’d been watching the blonde man whisper to his solicitor and flip a two pound coin back and forth across his knuckles for almost ten minutes. Officially, everything said Sebastian Moran was a businessman, entrepreneur, successful. Everything he had within said Moran was a liar, a criminal, and neck deep in the arson he’d had to pull his officers from. “Mr. Moran,” he stuck out his hand. “I’m DI Lestrade. Sorry for the delay, but we were calling up the property records on your warehouse.”

“Shouldn’t have wasted your time, Detective Inspector.” Moran smiled like Lestrade hadn’t yet gotten the joke. “That’s what I brought Mr. Walsh for. I’m sure he can provide any documents your heart desires.” He flipped the coin into the air, catching and pocketing it. “Am I under arrest or are you just the appetizer?”

“No, no arrest. Just trying to clear up a few things.” Lestrade wanted to get the chair cleaned as soon as Moran was out of it. “I understand you’re chief operations officer for a holding corporation under the name Erinesyo, primary shareholder being the estate of Valentin Nikolay Salamonsky?”

The smile was growing. “Yes. I must remember to give the Mr. Salamonsky’s solicitors a call with the bad news. They shouldn’t be too disappointed, though. We were trying to find a buyer, but I’m afraid retrofitting the structure would have cost far more than it was worth. We weren’t even carrying much in the way of insurance, so the loss will just have to be withstood.”

Arson for profit was the last thing on Lestrade’s mind. “I’m more interested in the property manager you hired. Mr. Troy Amir, I believe?”

“I’m interested as well.” Moran’s smile hardened, fire lighting his eyes. “Mr. Amir disappeared many, many months ago, and I haven’t heard from him since. Perhaps he’s been kidnapped again.”

Lestrade checked the few papers in the folder. “Mr. Amir was kidnapped before, then? You know the details?”

“He never told me much about it. Wasn’t quite the same afterwards. Nightmares, binges, fury. He got sloppy after that, never could get his focus back.” Moran shook himself with a sigh. “And he never called it kidnapping. I’m trying to remember the word he used. Ugly word. A word only a civil servant could love.”

“Detective Inspector!” Lestrade’s door opened with a bang. He recognized her, had even been expecting her, but she arrived faster than he’d imagined. She also smiled like a crocodile. “I’m afraid you’re required urgently downstairs.” Anthea purred. “I’m sure you can talk to this gentleman later if needed.”

“Well, well.” Moran turned in his chair, raking her with his eyes. “Emma Peel with just a hint of Cathy Gale, I think. I always preferred Mike Gambit, myself. Dark hair, dark eyes, they always were my weakness.” He stood, pushing Mr. Walsh out ahead of him. “Your boss should invite me to dinner, pretty lady. You’re supposed to kiss someone before you try to screw them.”

Her smile never wavered. “Duly noted, Mr. Moran.”

He paused in the doorframe. “Goodbye, Detective Inspector Lestrade. I’m afraid our next meeting may not be so pleasant.” Moran began to turn, and then stopped. “I remember the word now. He said it wasn’t a kidnapping; it was a rendition. Renditions don’t get investigated.”

Lestrade watched Moran weave his way out of the squad room, a venomous snake hypnotizing any who came too close. What he saw next chilled him to the core, sent him careening into the room to try to intervene.

Molly had been searching in her purse, talking to Sergeant Donovan, when she walked right into Moran’s chest. No recognition in her face, but she did drop back a step, her hand coming up in defense.

“Molly Hooper!” Moran seemed overjoyed, sweeping her up in his arms like some lost cousin, crushing her to him. “Molly Hooper, you are all he said you were and more! A little porcelain doll, too long on the shelf!” Lestrade saw him lean in, whisper something that left her white as a sheet. He sat her back down carefully, sketched a bow and swept out of the squad room.


	6. Chapter 6

Lestrade slid quietly onto the leather back seat, still clutching the file and feeling every bit the schoolboy sent to the headmaster’s office. He had realized, not long after the interview with Moran had begun, that whatever the man’s business, it was bigger than Scotland Yard could handle on its own. Losing control over the arson seemed trivial now.

Mycroft Holmes sat with his hands folded in his lap, but would have seemed less infuriated had he been swinging his arms wildly and shouting. They hadn’t seen each other since the funeral, and Mycroft’s presence felt like a glacier about to blot out the sky. “I knew the investigations after my brother’s death had been difficult, Detective Inspector, but I assure you my jurisdiction is not up for debate. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“I think I do now.” Lestrade was kicking himself. He had to admit, if it had been anyone else, he would have simply pulled his people out of the rubble and turned his back on it. He didn’t know if he kept pursuing it because or in spite of the Holmes name being attached.

“No, I doubt that very much.” Mycroft held his hand out for the file. “You need to stay as far from this as possible. Make sure your people stay out of it as well. I assure you Doctor Hooper doesn’t need any additional work”

“Who is Moran?” Lestrade handed the file over. “Give me something to work with here. If he’s operating in London, we’ll trip over him again, sooner or later.”

Mycroft took a moment to stare out the tinted windows. The delicacy this issue required was intense, but Moran had already positioned himself without triggering any alarms. Any extra eyes could only benefit the outcome. “Gregory, you will only ever discuss this with Anthea or myself. Do not, under any circumstances, assign anyone to anything in relation to Sebastian Moran. I cannot emphasize strongly enough how dangerous a man he is.”

Lestrade nodded and Mycroft took a deep breath. “The company Mr. Moran represents, Erinesyo; it’s a blending of two names. Eris and Enyo, the Greek goddesses of chaos and war.”

“That explains the munitions we found.” Lestrade nodded. “Moran is a war profiteer, arms dealer?”

“One among many interests.” Mycroft pulled a mechanical pencil from an inner pocket in his jacket. “My brother developed an awareness of anagrams at a very early age. What was the warehouse manager’s name?”

Lestrade told him and Mycroft wrote the name across a piece of paper torn from a small notebook, a single line in large upper case letters, “TROY AMIR” He turned the image to the Detective Inspector.

“I don’t…” Lestrade shook his head as Mycroft began tearing the sheet between letters, rearranging them as he placed them on the manila folder on his lap. “Son of a bitch. It can’t be. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Despite the arrest warrants, I thought you believed my brother.” Mycroft put the pencil back in his pocket. “Did you never think it through?”

Lestrade had gone ashen. “I went over everything. Crosschecked records, re-interviewed witnesses and perps, well, those that are still alive. I read every single alert from Interpol, MI5…” he shook his head, blinking rapidly. “The only links to Moriarty I could find…”

“Were given to you by Sherlock.” Mycroft nodded. He seemed to draw a deep breath before continuing. “Gregory, my brother was not alone on the roof of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. The man Kitty Reilly interviewed as Richard Brook was there as well.”

Without thought, Lestrade’s hands had clenched. MI5 had swarmed the hospital that day, keeping him and all other Yard personnel away. He had thought at the time, it was Mycroft’s last chance at defending Sherlock. “The pool of blood? Brook’s? Moriarty’s?”

“My brother recorded their conversation on his mobile phone, which he left on the rooftop.” Mycroft’s eyes were getting farther away. “On the recording, Sherlock positively identifies Richard Brook as the man he knew as James Moriarty. Moriarty himself confesses to have engineered the campaign to destroy my brother.”

“Wait!” Lestrade’s head was spinning. “You’ve got a recording that could exonerate Sherlock? You could arrange some kind of leak and tell the world the truth? What the hell have you been waiting for? For God’s sake, man, have you at least told John?”

“There are reasons…”

“Damn your reasons! Bloody hell, I thought Sherlock was the one with no heart!” Lestrade felt like he couldn’t breathe. All this time, all the questions left swirling unanswered and Sherlock’s own brother had the key. He reached for the door handle, only stopping when a vice grabbed his wrist.

“Detective Inspector, listen to me very carefully.” Frost had formed across the elder Holmes’ face, but his eyes blazed. “Moriarty stated that his plan was to force my brother to appear to commit suicide. He confessed, boasted that he had assassins in position to kill Doctor Watson, Mrs. Hudson and yourself if Sherlock failed to leap to his death. To ensure his orders could not be rescinded, Moriarty shot himself in the head, leaving Sherlock with little option. So you see, you are right; my brother was the one with a heart.”

Lestrade buried his head in his hands, shock rippling. What little he’d been able to piece together, tried to understand, accept about that day, about the death of his friend, had suddenly been ripped away from him. His mind raced ahead, past the obvious questions. Of course there were assassins. He assumed they had been dealt with. Any autopsy that had been done on Brook/Moriarty would have been handled at far too high a level for the report to have crossed his desk. He tried to keep his voice even. “Moran said somebody did a rendition on Moriarty. That was you, wasn’t it? You had him and you let him go.”

“We had intended to use him to lead us through the rest of his own organization, as well as show us the parameters of several others internationally that he did business with.” Mycroft leaned back in his seat. “Unfortunately, we were…less than successful.”

“And you have his body now.” Lestrade wasn’t asking. “Moran says he disappeared. So why haven’t you gone public? At least told the truth about Sherlock?”

“At this point, Mr. Moriarty is more useful as a ghost than as a corpse. We think most of his people believe him to be dead, but without being sure of it, they are reluctant to act. Some of his former associates have cut their ties and most of them have been ruined shortly thereafter. As long as they fear his return and retribution, his ghost keeps them in line while they are gradually eliminated.” Mycroft sighed. “Nothing could ever shake Mrs. Hudson’s belief in my brother, and telling John Watson the truth would only fuel him to do something foolish to avenge Sherlock’s memory. The truth could only threaten those he died to protect. I cannot allow that.”

The scene in the squad room came flooding back. “You missed one.” Lestrade was putting the pieces together. “Molly Hooper would never have doubted Sherlock. Oh, shit, Mycroft.” He tried to remember the exact words. “Moran grabbed Molly as he was leaving. Pulled her into a big hug, said something about her being just as she was described. He whispered something to her, scared the hell out of her. She told me she hadn’t heard him, but Donovan said he called Molly a lying bitch.”

Mycroft looked as if he were calculating. He had known Doctor Hooper had been deceived at the time, dating a man she had thought worked at the same hospital, but who had indeed been James Moriarty using her to gain access to his brother. There had been nothing to indicate any contact between them except for the month leading up to the incident at the swimming pool. He had her more thoroughly vetted after that, but no flags had been raised. Moriarty had never mentioned her name on the recording from the rooftop. Molly Hooper hadn’t counted in Moriarty’s eyes; why would she count in Moran’s?

 

TE/TE/TE

 

Molly stood under the showerhead in the locker room at St. Bart’s, letting the water beat the lather out of her hair. The shampoo the hospital used smelled faintly of almonds and she never liked it, but she didn’t dare go back to her flat smelling of cigar smoke. Sally had told her the man who had grabbed her was Sebastian Moran and he owned the warehouse that had burned overnight. His own words convinced her he had known Jim Moriarty and was the one who had tortured Sherlock. Despite the hot water cascading around her, she shivered. 

Once they had gotten out of the building, Molly had taken Wiggins with her to a cash point, using her card to withdraw a couple hundred pounds. She took the bag of clothing from him, sending him off with the cash to get more clothes and food while she had made her way to the hospital. 

She toweled off quickly, pulled her spare outfit from her locker and began dressing. The urge to dive on her phone and begin making calls was almost overwhelming. John first, then Greg. She supposed Mycroft should have been first on her list, but after John had told her what happened…no. She wouldn’t even consiter talking to him. She couldn’t really talk to any of them. She was at a loss for what to do.

Grabbing an elastic, she dragged her wet hair into a high ponytail. She hadn’t felt this helpless since Sherlock came to her in the morgue, saying he thought he was going to die. Damn him for keeping it all so close to the vest. She had overheard him tell John that horrible day that alone kept him safe. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

She stuffed the clothes she had been wearing into the battered duffle bag and jammed it into the bottom of her locker. She tugged her trainers on, leaving the laces tied. Tying the top of the shopping bag so no one could question the contents, she shouldered her purse and padlocked the locker closed. 

Molly gave herself one minute to sit on the bench to gather her thoughts. All she could deal with was what was directly in front of her. Sherlock was strong. She had doubted Spyder’s insistence that he’d be okay right up until he had looked her so intently in the eye. He was still in there. He didn’t need some stupid plan, some attempt at heroics on her part. All she could do, the best she could do, was to keep him safe and secluded until he healed up enough to come up with a plan. Go home, lock the door and give him time. If all else failed, she still had the Ruger MKIII Max had given her buried in her closet. 

She pulled the locker room door open, only to walk right into Mike Stamford. She was going to speak to him anyway, but hoped this was the last collision for a while.

“Hey!” he smiled, touching her arms. “I thought you were sick today. You all right, Moll?”

“No, Mike, I’m not.” Molly let her inner turmoil show with a few tears. “I’ve…I’ve got a couple of years of holiday saved up. I’m going to take them now.” She fished in her purse for a tissue.

Mike shook his head. “I don’t think we can do that right now. I suppose I could give you a week, but…”

She laughed brokenly. “I’m taking a month. Find a way, Mike.” Giving up, she wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “I’ve given this place a lot; I even was back to work two days after…” She let that sentence drop.

“I know, Moll. I just don’t think…”

She sniffed, straightening her bag. “I’ll be back in a month, or you can send me my termination papers. Goodbye, Mike.” She set off at a fast clip. She needed to get home.

 

TE/TE/TE

 

Viktor Andrasko placed a sugar cube between his teeth, sipping his tea around and through it. The crystals gave way with a satisfying crunch, spreading sweetness throughout his mouth. He watched the building across the road closely, awaiting the thin man’s exit. Witnesses would be troubling at this point.

Memories stirred, swirling in his mind. The systematic location, questioning and extermination of the Salamonsky family had been his greatest achievement, rewarding his employer with enough riches to build an empire. They had hidden themselves all over Eastern Europe, using all their connections to attempt to hide themselves and their treasures from him. Little blood had been spilled where anyone could see. To outsiders, they had simply disappeared one by one, their hiding places stripped bare.

Each broken body, each shallow grave had yielded under his hands. Husbands had begged for wives, wives for their children. In the end, they gave him all that he asked for in exchange for a last breath. The final piece, the body that should have yielded the mother load, had somehow slipped through his fingers. He wiped his sweaty palms, eager to correct that mistake.

The girl was supposed to have been his after she gave up the final location. Jet curls framed her face, emerald eyes and ruby lips were to reveal a trove of other jewels. Puberty had begun to mark her body, but she was still innocent enough for his tastes. Her bones had broken so sweetly, but her mind held, locking the remaining family secrets where he couldn’t touch them. 

She had nearly escaped, his employer demanding that he either get his answers or finish her off. A storm had raged outside and he hadn’t placed the bit correctly. When the charge came, she had cracked her jaw, and then her breathing stopped. While his back had been turned, his employer had turned up the machine. 

He pricked at her fingers and toes with a pin, getting no response. Alexandria had escaped him, taking her secrets with her. They left quickly after that. Viktor dropped a stained sheet over her remains. The hospital had been abandoned, saving him the work of digging another grave. The empire would be built without that last fortune.

His target was exiting the shop now, waving back at a few people. Viktor dropped some coins on the table, slipping out the door and following a bit behind. 

When Paul Morrison stepped into a darkened alley, a giant slid into the shadows with him. Bricks dug into his face, the pain in his ankle momentarily forgotten. A picture was shoved into his view.

“Where is the girl?” a deep voice demanded. “How can I find her?”

“I don’t know who you mean, mate!” Paul tried to draw a breath past the huge hand pressing on his spine. He hated the girl, but Wiggins was a friend. What the hell had she gotten him into?

A few answers later and the giant exited the alley alone.


	7. Chapter 7

The carpet cushioned him a bit as they dropped him in a heap. The back of his left arm ached badly enough that he wondered if they had broken the damned needle. If unconsciousness was going to elude him, he wished he could at least close his eyes the rest of the way. All he could see was short grey industrial carpet and the tips of the fingers of his left hand over the rise of the pad of his left thumb.

He knew he was in a different building, having felt a gust of fresh air for a few moments while he had fought nausea. Near the warehouse, then. He suspected he had just been delivered to Sebastian Moran. He was supposed to be in London, but Sherlock would have thought he’d keep farther away from his cache. Moran was a professional to his fingertips and would never allow the warehouse contents to be linked back to him.

Brown loafers walked past, a dull thump somewhere behind him. “That’s all the freak had on him. We checked all the way to his socks.” An unclear grunt came in some conformation. The first voice again. “Look, I don’t get it. He killed Jim. We should just put a bullet in his head; drop him in a hole somewhere. I know eight places right now where he’d never be found. Christ, how much has he cost you?”

The answer came like a cracking whip. “You don’t dispose of an asset until it stops being an asset! And that, that is one hell of an asset!” A few minutes passed and the second voice softened. “Jimmie screwed up. He got hot headed and impulsive, didn’t listen to me and he got himself killed. Don’t ever give that freak the credit for it. He hasn’t earned it.”

Ice hitting a glass, a decanter opened. The second voice continued. “Jimmie was always so much smarter. He knew where the real power was. There’s not one thing in that entire warehouse that is more powerful than what Jimmie could do. A gun is nothing without someone to pull a trigger. A bomb is useless without someone to carry it, set it off. Codes are pointless without someone who can read them. Jimmie always knew how to get people to do exactly what he wanted, when he wanted and how he wanted. Even Sherlock Holmes.”

“But Jim’s dead and that bastard is still alive.” the first voice pointed out.

A broken laugh. “Had to happen some time. Jimmie always said the villains had the most fun, but never got to see the final move. That’s why the villain has to lay waste to the world; that way when a hero finally wins, there’s nothing left to be claimed. He wanted to be sure all a hero got was a hollow, empty victory.” 

A glass being refilled, the squeak of an office chair. The second voice continued. “Jimmie made the same mistake twice. Twice he let that pawn on the floor dictate terms, control the board. First time, he got lucky. The freak tried to rush the game, push for an ending and Jimmie got too confident he could ad lib. It took a couple of phone calls, but I got him back on track and everybody walked away; no harm, no foul.”

The hissing of a large body settling in on a leather sofa as the voice kept going. “You don’t tempt fate a second time. After Jimmie came back from his little vacation, I couldn’t keep him focused on the work no matter how hard I tried. He was furious, vengeful, like he thought someone owed him something. He came up with this crazy new game, took months to set it all up and I couldn’t stop him. He thumbed his nose at the world, showed his face where it could be seen, and I knew after that, it was only a matter of time. I didn’t even try to stop him when that bastard as you called him, tried to take control of the board again. I figured they’d both be dead and, really, I think that’s what Jimmie wanted. Suicide by consulting detective.”

“And you’re letting him live why?” The first voice scoffed.

“Because he’s an idiot. He’s cut himself off, isolated himself. Anyone who gave a damn about him thinks he’s dead. They’re all hurt, aching and guilty, thinking they let him kill himself. That guilt is priceless. Yes, he’s done us some damage, but nothing I can’t compensate for now that I’ve got him for leverage.”

“So what’s the plan, then? Who are you going to use him against?”

“Not your problem, Nate. Your problem is the box of semtex that went missing after you reviewed the delivery yesterday. Did it grow legs and wander off by itself?”

Sherlock could hear the safety being removed even as the first man stuttered some excuse. The remembered gun shot jolted him awake, alone.

He sat up slightly, propping himself on his elbow. For a terrible moment, he had thought he was still in the cell, but a quick glance around the dimly lit room reassured him he was at Molly’s. There was still a dent in her old mattress where she had been, but the woman in question was missing. He tried pushing himself up farther, but his equilibrium refused to settle. No sign of her purse, and he thought she kept it in here. The room was a little messy, but nothing to indicate she’d been made to go. He rubbed his face, increasingly frustrated with the fog in his mind. However he had gotten here, the risk for Molly jumped a thousand-fold. He had to think, find some way of keeping her safe until he could get as far away as possible.

The door eased open without a sound, but he found himself looking for a weapon. A girl walked in and for a moment, his mind thought she was just a child. She had a small plate in one hand, a mug in the other, and she paused for a moment when she reached the light of the small lamp beside the bed.

Sherlock remembered her. The girl from the fire, the one who put his shoulder back in place. A vague memory of her and Molly together, cataloging his injuries. 

She gave him a small smile, leaning down to put the plate and cup on the bedside table. Her voice was quiet, almost a hum. “Coffee, black, two sugars, and marmalade on toast.”

He reached, grabbing her lower arm. A band of scar tissue circled her wrist. The other appeared the same. Not a suicide attempt; suicides didn’t try to cut all the way around. Her scars were roughly a quarter inch wide, tapering off near the outsides of her arms. Straps, leather straps, but it had to have been long ago. The scars were well healed, but stretched, slightly too wide, like she had grown since the injuries. 

She pulled her sleeves down, embarrassed, onyx lashes hiding emerald eyes. When she looked up again, he was staring at her face.

She looked like Grimm’s Snow White, but that wasn’t what had caught his attention. He knew her. Not personally or recently, but he could see her in his mind’s eye. Mycroft showing him photographs of her, open gravesites but not in cemeteries. Bodies mutilated to try to make identification impossible. Swirls of gold and platinum, studded with a rainbow of jewels. All traces wiped clean but a bet made. The words came without thought. “Ty yeshche zhiv?” He asked her if she were still alive.

She looked as if he had struck her, her eyes filling with tears as she backed away. “Prosti.” She repeated it over and over again; she was sorry. She ran from the room, leaving the door open.

He could hear the front door open, Molly speaking, but the girl was frantic. Molly insisted the girl take her coat, and the front door slammed.

 

TE/TE/TE

 

Spyder walked just short of a run, pulling Molly’s cloth coat closer around her, pushing the sleeves up her arms. Images and sound whirled in her mind, far too fast to be anything but nonsense. Her lover’s touch could stop the whirlwind; pull her back to this moment, this heartbeat, and this breath. Where was he?

The Raven had recognition in his eyes, the perception she’d been running from. She had thought she was safe, that his own dilemma would keep his attentions elsewhere. It wasn’t time for that part of the tale yet! Tears were coming, but she scrubbed them away cursing the weakness. No. That tale could never be told. Not even to him.

She blindly turned a corner, craving the sounds of a crowd to drown out the voices within. Absently, she bumped a vendor, plucking the apples he dropped from midair and keeping them moving until he took them from her. His customer laughed like shattered glass and she winced as she sped away.

Gaudy strings of flags were being tied in the air, tables of goods being prepared for passers-by. A girl handing out leaflets tried to press one into her nerveless hand. Her eyes raked the people milling about. Spyder glanced down an alleyway, trying to find anyone who looked familiar.

It was too open here, too many directions to try to watch. Chills screamed down her spine. She pulled the switchblade from her boot, hiding it in the pocket of the borrowed jacket. Where was Wiggins? She had to get oriented, find her way back to the bridge they slept under sometimes. She could press her back into the concrete corner; brace herself against the cool unyielding mass in welcoming shadow to await his return. Her lover would find her; he always did.

Music blared from the open glass doors of a boutique. A throbbing bass line with candy floss wrapped around it. A giggle was rising in her chest, frightening her. A scent of baking yeast in the air, coffee and cinnamon underlying it. 

She nearly stumbled as she stepped off a curb, her eyes darting between hastily erected booths. Her head snapped back as the rest of her tried to keep walking.

Spyder twisted, barely staying on her feet. The blade was in her hand, the button already pressed as she looked into a wall of white cotton. She grabbed the fist holding her braid in her empty hand as she flipped the blade, driving it between the bones of her attacker’s arm. She tried to twist the steel, but it slipped out of her fingers as the offending hand pulled away. 

The giant was bellowing as she started to run, toppling tables behind her.

 

TE/TE/TE

 

John straightened his collar as he made his way out the clinic door. All told, he had treated three people with various injuries that had been at the warehouse fire. All three had mentioned Wiggins as encouraging them to come to taunt the media, but one of them; Joan Moore, seemed to remember being asked before the fire had begun. True, John hadn’t known him well, but Wiggins never struck him as an arsonist. No, something had to be up, and John was determined to find him.

He’d mostly avoided cabs since Sherlock’s death, but he couldn’t think of another way to quickly search the city. It would be expensive, but he hoped he wouldn’t need to pay for information about the man’s whereabouts. He wouldn’t cover for Wiggins if he had started the fire, but assuming he hadn’t, maybe there was something he could do to help.

The cab drove past several locations John had known Sherlock to use when he needed his homeless network, but the spots were empty, no one playing their instruments or asking passers-by for change. It seemed so odd; if the regulars weren’t there, he would have thought others would take up the prime locations.

After a half hour, John was nearly ready to give up when he saw a familiar face. He had the driver pull over, paid and followed her down the sidewalk. “Denise? Denise, can I talk to you a minute?”

She had jumped when she heard her name, but as she turned and saw him, she gave him a grim smile. “Doctor Watson! Sure, but can we keep walking? I’ve got somewhere I need to be.”

He saw a coffee shop ahead and gestured. “If you can take a minute, I’m buying.”

The reluctance on her face surprised him. “Um, yeah, okay, but we need a table away from the windows, yeah?”

He sent her off to get a table while he got their order; two coffees, a sausage roll and a muffin. Denise was a slight woman, but it was obvious to him that she hadn’t eaten in a while.

She sat, angling her stool so she had a clear view of the door. The smile this time was a little more genuine. “Oh, Doctor! You always know how to treat a lady!” With a giggle, she wrapped the muffin in a paper napkin, tucking it in her purse before starting on the sausage roll. “So is this a social visit or were you looking for a good time?” She waggled her eyebrows in mock suggestion.

“Well, first off,” he sipped his coffee. “Tell me who you’re afraid of.”

For a moment she seemed to keep up the inflated act, but then seemed to think better of it. “Truth be told, I don’t know. Somebody nasty is trying to find a friend of ours and isn’t afraid to get bloody to do it. I’ve counted two broken arms and a crushed foot so far, and that’s just the damage I’ve seen myself. Everybody who can is getting under cover until this is all over. I’ve got a friend I play bump in the night with once in a while. I’m hoping I can hide at his flat for a few days.”

“So who’s the friend? Any idea why the search?” John wondered if anyone had tried contacting the police. The homeless tended to think no one would care if they were crime victims.

Denise took a deep drink. “You know Wiggins, right? His girlfriend, Spyder. Guy has a picture of her and everything. Bertie said it had one of those time and date things on it, so I guess she got caught doing something.” She shook her head. “No idea what she gets up to. She’s, well, touched, you know? Sweet girl, but mad as a hatter.”

John wondered if she had anything to do with the fire. “Have you seen Wiggins?” She shook her head. “What’s this guy look like, the one with the photo?”

Denise finished the coffee in a long drink. “Actually, he sounds kind of like the guy your friend was looking for when people kept getting bombs strapped to them.” She shouldered her purse. “Oh, and he’s got a big ring of some kind. It cut Bertie’s face when he punched him.” She stood, pushing back her stool and grasping his arm. “Look, Doctor, you’re a sweet guy and everything, but stuff like this happens. Sit here, drink your coffee. You lucked out, got out of the excitement business just in time. Stay safe and keep it that way.” She walked out of the shop.

 

TE/TE/TE

 

She ran on, hearing only her heart and her own ragged breathing. Spyder knew she was faster, but the giant’s large stride made up for her speed She cursed herself for allowing the blade to have filled her with misplaced confidence. It had been a helpful tool, but could never have done enough damage to stop someone his size.

She began to recognize landmarks as she sped past them. She took a left turn, not wanting to lead him anywhere near Lenore or the Raven. Spyder knew several alleys well, but he was too close to allow them to be alone for even a moment. If enough people were around she could scream, struggle, draw attention he wouldn’t want.

Watching the traffic carefully as she ran alongside it, she picked her point and darted across the road, cars and a lorry slamming on their brakes and delaying him a precious few seconds. She yanked a pasteboard easel advertising mobile phones into her wake. Finally she recognized a uniform ahead of her and ran for the officer.

Her eyes searched for anything else that might slow the giant when she ran full-tilt into someone exiting a coffee shop. The man tried to catch her as they fell, ending up beneath her in a tangle of limbs. She rolled to the side, watched as the giant slowed, then stopped. He glared at her for several seconds before reversing back the way he had come.

“Hey!” the man was trying to get her attention. “You’re bleeding! Did he hurt you?”

Spyder turned to him, preparing to bolt. Her eyes went wide as a name rushed out of her in a whisper. “Medved!” She shook her head, looking down to where he was examining the small amount of the giant’s blood on her sleeve. “I’m, I’m all right. Just a small cut on my finger, see?” She had nicked it when she flipped the knife.

“The bear?” he laughed at her shocked expression. “You’re Russian, right? I dated a Russian girl once, so I learned a little of the language.” He helped her to her feet, seeming to survey the small cuts on her cheek. “That big guy a friend of yours or should I call the police?”

“No, no. He just frightened me. I’m fine.” Spyder smiled, the urge to giggle throttled. Lady Fate loved her secrets but this was unreal.

He didn’t look as if he believed her and pulled a card from his wallet. “Well, if you ever need some help, someone to talk to about big scary men, or just a plaster for that finger, call me.” He handed her the card, smiling. “I’m…”

“Doctor John Watson.” Spyder darted in, kissing his cheek. “I believe in him, too.” She whispered, turned and fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations to Dietplanlite “All You Ever Wanted at Just the Wrong Time” and Petra Todd / Alacia Kensington “Far From the Tree”, which beat me at the SAMFAs this year! You all write such amazing stuff that I am in awe!


	8. Chapter 8

Input had always been his biggest problem. Either too much was coming in too fast, forcing him to try to analyze, catalog, reach conclusions far too quickly to allow for extraneous thought, or not enough, silences that threatened to overwhelm him, filled with second guesses, recriminations, and failures. The only way he’d ever found to make it stop proved to have far too many side effects to be maintained for any real time. Another way he had “disappointed”.

Mycroft had always recommended solitude. A distance to try to slow down the incoming information; a privacy to hide any weaknesses from being exploited. He had tried, but it left far too much vacancy, empty spaces that filled themselves with nightmare images of his own devising. He craved distraction, interaction, something to pull him outside of his own mind. 

He had tried to convince himself that the cell couldn’t harm him, that it would give him that distance his brother had treated like a grail. It took an excruciating time to realize the silence was breaking him. It was the tricks his captors tried to play; the blasts of sound, the temperature fluctuations, even his own body’s reactions to starvation that were the touchstones. Input to analyze. Strange that what they must have thought would break him had done the exact opposite. He had bent, but not broken.

He ran his hand absently over the duvet, feeling his index finger drag slightly. Stickiness there; a bit of marmalade that had escaped the toast. He shot a look at the table; saw the empty plate and cup. The taste of coffee in his mouth with no memory of drinking it. How? He closed his eyes for a moment.

His fingertips sent an approximate thread count of the cotton sheets. He knew the laundry detergent, the fabric softener. He eased off of his elbows, down onto the pillow. A faint hint of furniture polish. 

He had been hearing Molly moving around in the flat, the sounds of dishes in the sink. A swift knock and a man’s voice. For a moment he wanted to bolt up, but then he recognized the voice; Wiggins. Rustling sounds and Wiggins’ voice went tight as he left the flat, banging the door behind him.

Molly’s body wash, her shampoo and conditioner. No acid undertone of hair spray. She’d slept on the sheets two, maybe three days. Trying to focus, narrow the input, and digest it. Three days; three different colognes. No, two. The third scent was Molly herself.

The girl must have been Wiggins’ elusive girlfriend. Strange name; obviously not one that would have been on a birth certificate. Many of Wiggins’ friends hid behind nicknames. The spelling had made him wince. Spyder! The girl called herself Spyder. Wiggins said she insisted it be spelled with a “y” instead of an “i”. 

He took a deep breath, feeling the pathways beginning to ease, patterns reestablishing themselves. Focusing the data, examining it, filing it where needed. A conclusion rising based on memory; Wiggins’ Spyder was Alexandria Ivanova Salamonsky. As sleep took him, he smirked. Mycroft owed him fifty quid.

 

TE/TE/TE

 

John wandered on foot for a while, marveling at the empty spaces no one else seemed to notice. The few faces he recognized in shadows disappeared before he could get close. Denise hadn’t been overstating her case; the homeless seemed to be in full retreat. Thinking it through, he pulled out his mobile and checked with the clinic; they were more busy than usual, an upswing in accident victims were being brought in for plasters, stitches and x-rays. A few even needed to be transported for more serious injuries. They were handing the extra currently, but if it continued, he’d be called in later.

He hesitated for a moment before putting the mobile back in his pocket. He had made a point of keeping in contact with Molly Hooper for months after Sherlock’s death, but they had drifted since Mary had come into his life. They still spoke frequently enough that he knew there were no hurt feelings, in fact Molly adored Mary, but there just hadn’t seemed to be enough hours in the day. To call her now, over something so grim seemed tactless somehow. He knew she volunteered at the shelter regularly; maybe she even knew Wiggins. Maybe she had a few answers.

John scrolled through his contacts, putting through the call. Three rings later, it went to her voicemail. He almost hung up, but the unease wouldn’t leave him. “Molly? It’s John. Listen, I know this is going to sound crazy, but…” he paused. No, this was too much to try to explain as a message. “Something’s going on. I shouldn’t get you involved, but I’m trying to help a friend you may know. I’m guessing you’ll get off work about six. Could you meet me at that café we had dinner at last month? I’ll see you there at seven. Call me if you can’t make it.” He hung up, immediately texting a dinner invitation to Mary at the same location. 

John started walking for the tube station, but the unease wasn’t letting up. There was still one more thing he could do. His own hesitation annoyed him. He and Lestrade had made their peace, but there still remained tentativeness between them. He couldn’t, wouldn’t go into that building. Never again, not without… He pulled up the contact on his mobile.

“Lestrade, its John. Can you meet me out front in half an hour?” he crossed the street. “No, but something’s happening.”

 

TE/TE/TE

 

Moran pulled the small binder from an inner pocket, reviewing his notes on jobs in progress. The timing on misplacing his trophy couldn’t be worse. Loosing the detonators was a problem in and of itself. A new shipment would arrive within the week, but the client had specified taking delivery tomorrow. Not a phone call he was looking forward to.

A Bosnian warlord would be flying over Germany tomorrow, needing the properly forged documents in place to land in Zurich. The Nicaragua mess. Antiquities waiting offshore of Southampton. 

All of that could be dealt with, but his prime concern was a crate due to arrive in Liverpool in four days. Neither the buyer nor the seller were willing to divulge the contents of the crate; had paid a king’s ransom to withhold that information. It was to be moved from freightliner to dock to another ship without any inspection, paperwork or notice. Sebastian had his suspicions. The crate would be large and heavy, and those involved didn’t want any of his people getting too close. It just screamed nuclear and trouble.

When he’d taken the job, Holmes had already been in the vault three days. Samples had been taken for future use, stored in the mini fridge under his desk. Sebastian had assumed the trophy would be ready to be displayed to the Iceman by the time the crate arrived. Now he couldn’t even be sure he’d have the trophy back by then.

Moran texted Andrasko, demanding he come in and report in person. The girl was looking more and more like the best chance at recovery. 

He hated bluffing. He pulled the cotton gloves on, breaking the seal on a package of padded manila envelopes. A couple of samples from the fridge were joined with a photograph. The photo would immediately be discounted as a fake, but it would point an arrow at the samples. He pulled the plastic strip away and the envelope sealed itself. He checked the seal to be sure no traces were caught in the adhesive.

Moran handed the envelope across his desk. “You know how to deliver this. Make sure it’s undisturbed until it gets to his private office.”

 

TE/TE/TE

 

He was dreaming of when he sat in the window as he chain smoked, adding to the miasma of Karachi’s air. The former capital was louder than London at night, ambient lighting hiding the sky. The nicotine was hitting him in perceptible waves, filtering, focusing. The patches were a joke, a cruel substitute, but one he’d be returning to soon enough.

He glanced back at the bed, seeing the dip in her spine shadowed by candlelight. She was on her stomach, the sheet draped low on her nude body, her arm stretched toward the floor. He was sure she was asleep, but the resemblance to the painted woman from that ridiculous Bond film was almost too close for chance. Fake. False. He couldn’t decide if it was her or him.

It had been enjoyable, less messy than he had expected. Despite the outer appearance that made the adventure look like a Mills and Boon cheap paperback romance novel, he’d had no illusions going in and been sure she hadn’t either. No promises made or oaths given on either side. No expectations, but that wasn’t quite true.

He sighed, watching the cloud of smoke curl upward. He had craved the distraction, the way the drugs had sped up his thoughts until they felt like quicksilver flowing through his mind or the glowing euphoria that lit the shadows and thinned the walls that defined him. He had long suspected that sexual acts were no substitute and was trying to not to be disappointed at the confirmation. 

He had been careful. Just as he had started by testing the chemical balances of his purchases, he had made sure Irene Adler was a known quantity. He had known precisely what she was capable of before he’d ever let her near him. He had scrupulously protected himself, and by extension, her. True, she had built up a romantic image in her mind, but she was intelligent enough to know the image was hers, not an actual reflection. They had touched, but he still felt curiously untouched. An intimacy that lacked intimacy.

He snorted. There was only one person in his life that he felt he had any intimacy with at all and despite the ridiculous rumors, there was nothing sexual about it. John couldn’t understand why the label “friend” was uncomfortable for him. He could just imagine his reaction to being called an “intimate”.

Eventually, the chemistry had gotten away from him. He had gotten less careful as the craving for sensation had grown. He stopped testing and that’s when the overdosing problem had begun. Three hospitalizations, but only he knew how many times he somehow survived without assistance. The balance tipped and the reward was eclipsed by the cost. 

He looked back to the undeniably beautiful woman on the bed. Perhaps exposure was the key. No. Exposure was a vulnerability he couldn’t afford; not with her. She was brilliant, calculating, and sooner or later that calculation would not work out in his favor. The distraction did not outweigh the risk.

The creaking of a metal hinge woke him. Molly had pulled a strongbox out of one of her dresser drawers, opening it and removing a handgun. With practiced ease, she ejected the clip, began loading it with twenty two caliber bullets. It took him a moment to recognize it; a Ruger MK III. When had she gotten a permit for that? The memory came at him like a wave. Lestrade told him she got the permit right after the incident at the swimming pool, shortly after learning she had been dating a man who strapped bombs to people for entertainment.

Setting the weapon on the dresser, she relocked the box without putting the box of ammo back inside. He could see the slightest tremble in her hand as she put the strongbox back in the drawer.

His head swam a little as he stood. She pushed the clip back in with a snap, practiced and without hesitation. It was just wrong. Wrong in so many ways and on so many levels. The tremor was gone as she checked the safety, wrapping the weapon in a flannel and putting it and the spare ammo in her purse. She was comfortable with it, at ease. 

She ghosted a smile at him as he approached, glad to see him moving but uncomfortable at what he’d just witnessed. “Sorry, I’m keeping it. I like my walls and John told me you scratch your head with the barrel sometimes.”

He touched her elbow, feeling the shaking she was trying so hard to hide. Her hair had been wet; dry now, but she hadn’t combed it out yet. The tendons in her neck were rigid, her breathing shallow and fast. Her eyes were too bright, too sharp. He could almost taste the fear in the air around her. Something had happened, something beyond having a fraudulently dead man sleeping in her flat. They hadn’t found him yet; they’d be moving in if they had. What had frightened her enough to…

His mind was fogging up again and it was maddening. She didn’t deserve this, having this mess brought right to her door. Everything he had been through had been to keep all that away from all of them. He had to say something, do something or it would all be for nothing. An impulse, primal, exactly what he’d avoided all his life, but it was all he could think of. He’d have to trust her to understand, to not read in an intent he didn’t mean. He’d hurt her before without intention, but now… She’d seen him before, let her see him now.

The kiss was soft, a momentary brush. I’m here. I won’t let anything happen. I’ll find a way to stop this. I won’t let it touch you. Please, let her see.

Her eyes were damp as he pulled away, but she wasn’t close to tears. The corners of her mouth twitched. “Do you know how much I miss your voice?” Her smile bloomed with her blush.

 

TE/TE/TE

 

Wiggins had heard of the search for his girl, seen photocopies of a photo with “two hundred pounds” scrawled across it. He had rushed through the rest of Molly’s shopping; sure Spyder was safe at Molly’s flat. Discovering she had bolted, run away alone terrified him. She was too close to the edge. The last time she had gotten this upset, she had gone catatonic. Knowing how hospitals affected her, he had cared for her alone; fed her baby food, washed her from buckets of water drawn from outside a florist. He called in every favor he could to provide food and shelter without leaving her side for the week it had taken before she came back to herself.

She had a cycle of monuments; public places she would go to hide in crowds. She seldom went in anywhere that required a ticket and instead loitered staring into space until she got her bearings back. She wasn’t at the Eye or the Tower.

He finally found her standing before Nelson’s Column in Trafalgar Square. Her fists were clenched tight as she stared upward, He might have missed her in Molly’s coat, but the onyx braid stretching down to her mid-thigh was unmistakable. Relieved, he barely noted the secondary band roughly two feet up from the elastic holding her braid together. 

He walked to the side of the statue so she could see him before he could startle her. “Hello, my beautiful Spyder.” he whispered into her cheek, wishing he’d stolen another flower for her hair.

“My lover.” She stroked his cheek with the back of her fingers. Her eyes were glassy, pupils pinpoints. Her upper lip twitched as she pulled him close, molding their bodies as her hands drew him into the kiss. She seared his flesh, grazing his lower lip with her teeth, inviting him deeper. His hands tightened suddenly on her hips as the fear rolled over him. He was losing her, feeling her slipping away even as she pressed into his chest. 

He couldn’t tell if the tears on their skins were hers or his as she pulled away, stepping back a few paces. She was smiling, but it was gallows humor. “I loved you, Wiggins. With everything I had left, I loved you, I swear it.”

He was moving, trying to stop her even before he saw the scissors in her hand. His mind was screaming that she wasn’t gone yet. He couldn’t let her leave.

Her head snapped around, the braid coming forward to rest across her chest. A horrible grinding noise as the scissors bit through her tresses. It took three strokes before her tail broke free, her hair relieved of the weight, pulling loose from the confines it had been in every moment that they had known each other. The tendrils curled, free in the breeze, dancing on the face of a stranger.

Her eyes hardened, got cold as she stepped forward, wrapping the braid around his outstretched hand. A voice he swore he’d never heard before passed by the familiar lips, accent heavier, deeper tones. “You need to hide now.”

“No. I promised I wouldn’t leave you. Not any of you.” He gripped the braid tightly.

“You promised a ghost.” She bent down, lifting a duffle bag he hadn’t noticed. She hefted it onto her shoulder, running her hands through the rest of her hair, finger combing it back from her forehead. “A handsome fool. You’ll regret it.” Looking around, she flatly stated “First we need a chemists.”


	9. Chapter 9

“No use tempting the animals.” She led Wiggins down a side street, pulling him behind a skip. Kneeling, she unzipped the duffle bag, releasing a small cloud of what appeared to be confetti.

He felt sick, wanting to simply grab her arm and flee, but knowing somehow the girl he loved was already gone. “Should I still call you Spyder? I mean, you don’t seem…”

She paused for a moment, considering. “No, you could be overheard.” She pulled several thick bundles of paper out of the bag, handing them to him before grabbing more. “I used to be...” she laughed brokenly, “call me Alex, its close enough.” She began beating the bundles against each other, sending up clouds of dust and small bits of paper.

Wiggins glanced down, seeing at least one hole had been chewed through the bag, evidence of rodents scattered among the slips of paper. He had begun hitting the bundles in his hands just as she had before his eyes identified what he was holding. Cash, large bundles of currency in several denominations.

His eyes bulged, returning to the bag. It must have held at least a couple of thousand quid before the rats had gotten to it. She seemed to think she had gotten enough debris off what she was holding as she shoved the money into various pockets before reaching for more of the banded notes. “How long have you had this?”

“About half an hour. Emergency cache too risky to touch.” Pocketing the rest of the money she held, she gestured for him to do the same. She zipped the bag up, and then dropped it in the skip. “I’m sure I wasn’t spotted, but someone will notice its missing sooner or later.”

“So you were robbing banks when I wasn’t around?” Wiggins hurried to keep up with her as she strode across the square, afraid if he lost sight of her, he’d never find her again.

Alex stopped abruptly, giving him a fractured half smile. “Do you really want to know?” Her eyes, once so familiar and soft had gone hard, but at least the ice had retreated from the leaf green. It was as much a challenge as a request for assurance. She was judging him, weighing him in a way she never had as a lover.

“I want to know everything.” the statement flowed out like a prayer. He needed to know, to reconcile the damaged girl he had held so often with whoever it was she’d become. 

She curled her hand around his, setting off in the direction of Boots. “This is how I remember the tale. It is the only truth I know, the only family left to me.” She cleared her throat, beginning to recite. “Once upon a time, a beautiful golden haired equestrienne fell in love with an obsidian haired winged prince. Their courtship was welcomed throughout their small kingdom as it would unite two of the most powerful families into an alliance not seen since the nightmare of Revolution. He had proposed marriage to her beneath the castle’s highest dome, both lovers suspended between heaven and earth, surrounded by a rainbow of silks and gossamer threads. The cheers had gone up so quickly that they drowned out her tearful acceptance. The feasting went on for days, food and wine pouring freely.”

She paused at the zebra crossing, her voice droning seamlessly. “Arrangements were made, banners hung, and the next time the castle was raised, the old rituals were again performed. The entire kingdom was in attendance, spilled out across the floor, while those who made their way through the gates witnessed from the long benches. Long after the banquets were served, the wine poured and the dancing begun, the patriarchs of both families met secretly in the steel vault that followed the kingdom on its travels. The matter of the dowry was settled; three effete eggs, heavier than their productive namesakes, each encrusted with splendors, opening to reveal hidden treasures within. Each a ransom in its own right, but the existing horde would be split no deeper. Any future harvests would be shared among the reapers.”

Wiggins followed her through the store as she quickly located a few boxes for herself, and then judged a few by holding them along side his face. “When winter’s snows began to grow, the lovers kept warm in each other’s arms. As the kingdom rang in a new year, the castle reaching for the steel struts above while its feet were mired in dirty slush, the announcement was made. The princess’ horses would have to dance their ornate patterns without her for a time; a child was coming.”

 

TE/TE/TE

 

Molly had brought him the bags Wiggins must have been delivering. Clothing mostly, but a few toiletries and one of the multi-function electric razors that would trim as well as shave. Sherlock wanted to shower, almost desperately, but wasn’t sure his legs were up to it yet. 

He swung Molly’s bedroom door around, surprised at his own hesitancy to close it all the way. Enclosed spaces had never bothered him before. Something else he’d have to get used to. Changing quickly into jeans and a casual buttoned shirt, he crossed the hall to her bathroom.

The fluorescent bulbs were too bright, but the ambient light from the bedroom was enough to brush his teeth by. He snorted to himself. Such a mundane thing, but after all that time, tooth brushing was almost a delight. He briefly considered letting the beard go, but a quick glance in the mirror had him reaching for the razor. The fit of the clothing had given him some idea of how much mass he had lost, but the reflection in the glass looked too much like a stranger. 

Turning the razor off, Sherlock could hear a small repeated noise coming closer. Molly was tapping her finger on the wall as she approached, obviously not wanting to startle him. He splashed water in the sink, the bits of hair swirling away as he avoided her eyes. 

He had known on some level that his confinement had marked him, that what he’d endured would show, but knowing it and seeing it were two entirely different concepts. If it was a shock to him, he couldn’t imagine what it was to her. Her physical attraction to him had always been a bit of a mystery, but for her to see him like this; skeletal, drawn, weakened, should have been disillusioning.

“Here.” she held out a silver watch on a black leather band. “I had Wiggins get it for you. It’s not as nice as your old one, but I know you like keeping track.”

He took it from her, bracing himself. A deep breath and he reached for control, feeling the chords resisting being put to work again. The sound came, barely audible. “Thank you.”

 

TE/TE/TE

 

John was frankly astounded by how quickly Lestrade had gotten out his pad, taking complete and thorough notes. He had expected at least hesitancy, some disbelief at the tale he had to tell. “You already knew about this, didn’t you? That someone’s harassing the homeless?”

Lestrade grimaced as he continued to write. “Well, sort of. They’re a bit of an insulated group, but between the bounty offered and the people at casualty, it’s gotten too out of hand to hide.”

“Anything to do with that warehouse fire?” John watched closely for a reaction. He’d kept Wiggins’ name out of it so far, but loyalty only would allow for so much.

“Doubt it.” Lestrade pocketed the notebook. “Not even our case any more. I’m sure that…” he stopped as Sally Donovan walked up.

“Doctor Watson.” she acknowledged with a nod, handing the paper to the other man. “We finally got hold of one of the photocopies. That’s the girl our big Russian is after.”

Lestrade looked it over, the knot settling in his stomach. He recognized the location immediately, grateful Donovan hadn’t been in the warehouse. He’d have to call Mycroft Holmes; fax him the image. He knew Sherlock had had ties in the homeless community, but knew he didn’t dare ask John about it now. It was all getting far too close to home. John snatched the paper from his hands.

“I’ve seen her!” John’s brows had knitted together. “I ran into her, literally ran into her earlier! She’s Russian.” The image was so grainy, but there was no mistaking the long braid trailing across her shoulder.

“Have you got a name?” At this rate, Lestrade wanted to start looking for snipers, peering into corners looking for Richard Brook.

“No, sorry.” John shook his head. “You said a big Russian is after her? I think I’ve seen him. Only for a few seconds, but I think I could give you a description.”

“Okay, I’ve got an appointment I’m late for.” Lestrade folded the image, putting it in his pocket. “Donovan, take the description. John, I’ll be in touch.” He tried to not rush into the building.

 

TE/TE/TE

 

Boots behind them, they moved on to Next, Alex grabbing shirts and pants in groups, only letting Wiggins pick out his own briefs. Her tale continued almost uninterrupted. “The onyx princess was thought to have been born unlucky. Her mother’s family thought so because their beautiful horses were crated away where they could not see the newborn child, and her father’s family thought so because she had been born with no view of the sky. The patriarchs thought she brought doom since the kingdom had to halt its travels for a time until escape could be made from the concrete and steel prison that her parents had been forced to take refuge in when she was discovered to have been in breech position.”

Shoes next, only one pair for each of them; trainers. She kept the tale pouring forth. “The obsidian prince and his golden princess were far removed from succession, but they still had many duties, so their onyx haired daughter was raised by the entire kingdom. What time was not spent in the rolling boxes, trying to hear tutors over the infernally loud clicking sounds was filled to overflowing with the joy of the open air.”

Alex picked out a purse, more like a messenger bag and added it to the pile as she went on. “Much of her time was used for feeding and grooming the animals that traveled with them. She rode her mother’s horses bareback, danced beneath the outstretched arms of the bear, and even strode fearlessly into the marked territory of the lion whose mane reminded her of her mother’s golden locks. His teeth were too gnarled, yellow and brittle to pose much threat to anything larger than the occasionally ignorant and confused rat.”

They made their way to the till, practically buried in a week’s worth of clothing for each of them. Casual, nothing too dressy that might attract attention. She went on. “Much of her time was spent in the sewing circles of the old women, hearing the tales that had taken generations to accumulate while silks, costumes and even curtains were made right. She learned to play cards from them as they taught her the finer arts of deception; lying, cheating, concealing. The old women never offered, yet she returned to her mother each time too stuffed with biscuits to eat a decent dinner.”

The doors let them back out into the street and Wiggins watched the wind tangle her hair into her eyelashes. Her story went on. “Much of her time was passed with Pyotr and his brothers, learning the art of calculation in motion. Three at a time, then four, trying to master five in mid-flight. They taught her to see the paths hanging open and ready to be taken. Eventually the paths lead not from one hand to the next, but instead from one hand to a goal. Concentric rings, lines of dented cans, even rows of empty bottles would disappear before her gaze.”

 

TE/TE/TE

 

Sherlock made his way down the hall, sticking close to the wall in case his legs stopped cooperating. The watch said Molly’s flat should be full of light by now, but the dimness held. As he made his way into her living room, he could see the reason why; blackout blinds. White on the outside but black on the inside. Not only did they hold the light at bay, they would mask any shadows from being visible outside at night. A measure of privacy Sherlock wondered if Wiggins had been responsible for, or if Molly’s odd working hours caused her to seek out a method of creating artificial night.

She had followed him, present if he got into trouble but not interfering, then went into the kitchen. Pulling out a pot, she put some soup on to slowly warm, hoping to get him to eat again soon. Knowing his usual habits, she was preparing to have a fight on her hands, but she knew he would have to eat small, frequent meals until his body could safely reassert its own rhythms.

He sat carefully on her couch, reaching mindlessly for the remote control. The television came on so loud he almost dropped the remote. By the time he found the volume button, the rapid flashes of bright color irritated him enough to simply shut it off. As difficult as the hypersensitivity was, the craving for distraction was growing, followed by the usual frustration. He needed to focus, find some way of dealing with the coming threat of Sebastian Moran, but it kept slipping away from him, like a bar of soap in the bath. The harder he tried to grab on, the faster it got away from him.

Movement caught his eye. Molly had turned on her laptop computer, setting it before him on the coffee table. She must have turned down the screen’s brightness, the glow muted compared to the way the television had been. A cursor flashed onscreen, waiting for her password. He looked at her expectantly.

She raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t want to spoil your fun.” she smiled.

He smirked in return; glad to see her smile grow. Three whole minutes. He wondered if that was her skill or his fuzziness. Charitably, he settled on both.

He supposed he should go to his usual web haunts for news, see if anything would twig him to Moran’s plans, but the sites would be rife with flashing ads he didn’t want to stomach yet. He wanted to look up stories of local fires, try to piece together what had happened in the last few hours, but Molly said Spyder and Wiggins would be back soon and he’d rather hear from them first, and then view whatever the media chose to tell. 

He was typing the name into the search engine before he’d given it much thought. Sherlock knew all the articles would be there, a rare few written in English. He clicked on one of the earliest, from the newspaper Blesk in the Czech Republic. Bodies in a shallow unmarked grave; two adults and one child, the child largely untouched, but the adults missing their teeth and fingertips. No clothing or jewelry found with the bodies, decomposition leaving only weather-beaten bone behind. No locals had gone missing so they were assumed to be transients of some kind until DNA had come along. Even then, identification had been difficult. Too many missing members of the same family to narrow down to specific names. 

He went back to the search, this time picking a more recent article. The state taking the girl away from the family she had known, giving her to distant cousins who said they wanted to keep her safe from whatever forces were making those closest to her disappear. A photo of the child, her face contorted with tears and confusion as a somber man in a trench coat loaded her into a black car.

Molly was holding a steaming bowl out to him. She glanced down at the screen and stopped. Sitting beside him, her fingers trailed over the close cropped curls on the child’s photograph. “My god, that’s Spyder.”

 

TE/TE/TE

 

Emma dropped the sack of potatoes with an unceremonious thump, once again cursing the managers of the shelter for not being organized enough to have the muscled volunteers show up to unload deliveries. She was more than happy to share her pension time trying to make the world a little better place, but she’d need help at this rate!

Glancing around and feeling absurdly naughty, she took her purse to the rear of the building. She had told her son she was going to give up smoking, but she’d never specified when.

Startled, she almost choked on the first drag. How the hell could someone so large sneak up on her like that?

The man was curled into himself, his eyes wet as he thrust a photograph at her. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m trying to find my daughter. She’s been missing for so long, and I need to find her. Can you help me?” He sounded eastern European.

Emma hadn’t intended to look at the picture. The shelter kept a strict policy of non interference unless the police were involved. Some of the homeless were fleeing some desperate situations. Anyone could claim to be a concerned family member, a long-lost friend. Those that used the shelter had to have some faith that they would be safe. “I’m sorry. Why don’t you come back tonight and have a look for her? We start serving about six. If you come a little early, maybe you could help us out.” She stubbed out the cigarette.

“No, I need to find her now.” He held the photo up where she couldn’t evade it. “Her momma is very sick…”

It had only taken a split-second, but Emma recognized the image. That strange tiny girl Molly Hooper had helped, the one with the bleeding hand. She looked back, shivering when she noted the rest of the volunteers had gone back inside. “Look, Vladimir, or whatever your name is…”

“Viktor.” he smiled, his eyes bone dry. “My name is Viktor. Now you will tell me about the girl, yes?


	10. Chapter 10

It wasn’t the best hotel, but at least they had gotten a room without a credit card. Alex spilled the Boots bag over the bed, grabbing two boxes, opening the box of bin liners and gesturing for Wiggins to join her in the bathroom. “Most of her time was reserved for the driving passion she shared with her father; flying. When she had been very small, too small to do more than crawl on her own, her father engineered a harness, strapping her tightly to his chest as he climbed the filament towers within the castle itself. A small jump and they would cast off the limits of gravity, his larger body wrapped around her tiny frame. The ground would rush up, only to spin away untouched. Eventually his arms would tire and gravity resumed its relentless pull, dropping them into a nest of hemp almost as soft as her mother’s arms.”

She stripped down to her bra and pulled his shirt off. Tying a couple of bin liners around their necks like capes, she carefully unloaded one box on each side of the sink. “Wings were not given; they had to be earned. She had to learn to tumble, both to increase and to bleed off speed. She had to see the paths, much like she did with Pyotr’s pins and balls, only the object being her own flesh. Learn to change direction in mid-air, to flatten herself against drag, to arch her back to reach a hairsbreadth farther. The gravest lesson of all; gravity always wins. She had to learn to fall, learn to bruise and to break, yet get up to fly again, thwart gravity for every moment aloft.”

She mixed the two bottles on the left side together, drawing on the disposable gloves. She screwed on the dispenser top, shaking the contents the consistency of thick cream. Smirking as his nose wrinkled, she worked the solution into Wiggins’ hair. “The onyx princess climbed the tower alone for the first time after only a decade. Her father awaited on the other platform, her mother hiding her face in her hands. Few in the kingdom were brave enough to watch this attempt, but their fear made it so much sweeter to her. One of the old women said she was just brave enough to be completely stupid. The princess curled her toes around the edge and stepped off into nothing.”

Two very different bottles, equally pungent, were mixed and she worked them into her own hair; roots first. She piled the length of her saturated hair on her head and motioned him to the bed. “No noise from below as the wind whipped by her face. Seconds stretched to minutes, but her arms grew tired. As she reached once more for her father’s fingers, her small form betrayed her, failed her. Missing his embrace, she fell alone. The hemp grabbed her before the ground could strike soul from skin. The patriarchs awaited her landing. The light was too bright; she was destined for the shadow show.”

 

TE/TE/TE

 

Molly was hesitant to say anything as Sherlock took the bowl from her, setting it on the table beside the computer. She’d been relieved when he had finally spoken, but wasn’t sure he was up to a full conversation. “I had suspected Spyder knew you before. Was it a case?” Maybe if she could steer to yes or no answers, it would help.

He made a noncommittal grimace. A suspicion was forming, but he couldn’t piece it together yet. He should be able to dismiss the girl’s sudden appearance as mere coincidence. Wiggins had spoken to him about her years before, how she’d given him a ridiculous nickname and then done her best to avoid any contact, but frankly, he hadn’t paid much attention at the time. A pattern forming there and it made him uncomfortable.

Sherlock paused for a moment, his fingers held over the keys. No, they were all somehow swept into this mess together; Molly had to know. If she could keep the secret of his survival, she could keep Alexandria’s secrets as well. He found the wikipedia page and turned the screen toward her.

Molly was surprised he was using the source, but he’d obviously intended her to read it. The entry looked long, so she pointed at the bowl. “I’ll trade you; you eat and I’ll read.” She waited to begin until he did.

It wasn’t a time in his life that Sherlock had been very proud of. Mycroft had brought him the earliest news clippings as something to keep his mind busy during his last time in the hospital. A missing teenaged girl wouldn’t have been enough, but the circumstances were intriguing. The nurses passed his questions to his brother and each visit, Mycroft brought more reports and his attempts at answers.

By the time he was released, the girl had been missing for over a year. Sherlock had wanted to go to Prague, to speak to the cousins that had adopted Alexandria right before her disappearance, but his brother wouldn’t allow it. Mycroft had insisted if the girl were still alive, someone would have seen or heard by now. His deductions said that if the Faberge eggs and other treasures weren’t on the market yet, the girl must still be alive somewhere, her secret keeping her breathing. They had rowed over it, leading to a fifty pound bet, but in the end, Sherlock didn’t pursue it. The trail had been too cold for too long. 

Molly leaned back on the couch. “Were the rumors true? The double lives of the Salamonsky family?”

Sherlock nodded. “I should have found her.” Somehow, she had found him.

 

TE/TE/TE

 

“It should be coming through now.” Lestrade carefully kept his back to the glass between his office and the rest of the squad. Anthea had put his call through to the elder Holmes immediately, an urgency which concerned him. This whole mess seemed to be escalating rapidly out of control. He couldn’t stop the suspicion that he wasn’t getting the whole story out of anyone.

“You’re certain this was taken inside the warehouse in question?” Mycroft’s voice came out tighter than he’d intended. The image was distorted; any resemblance had to be in his imagination. The pose was too similar, stepping down a ladder as she held one rung in her hand, looking off over her shoulder.

“Saw it myself; it’s a perfect match.” Lestrade sat heavily in his chair, turned it to the outside window. “We’re getting more reports of injuries, so whoever this mystery man is, he’s working hard to find the girl. I can’t keep my people away from there if that picture stays in circulation. What am I supposed to tell them?”

The initial contact had to have been a bizarre coincidence. “Do you think John Watson will try to find her again?” He hadn’t spoken to John himself in a while. Perhaps that should be corrected, sooner rather than later.

“Doubt it. He hasn’t seemed to stick his nose in anything like this since your brother died. Any special instructions if we can find the girl first?” Lestrade turned in his chair, hearing a clamor in the squad.

Donovan stuck her head in Lestrade’s door. “We got a call; dead volunteer at one of the shelters; the one St. Bart’s runs? Unnatural death; Anderson thinks she was bludgeoned. You coming?”

He nodded, gesturing for her to go out and give him a minute. “Molly Hooper volunteers at that shelter, Mr. Holmes. Whatever rabbit you may have waiting in a hat somewhere, you better be able to pull it out soon.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I’ll let you know if anybody saw a giant Russian.”

Mycroft hung up the phone, and then summoned Anthea. “Please have someone put this through the facial recognition software. See if there is a match to any known missing persons cases in Eastern Europe.”

Anthea placed an unopened padded envelope on his desk. “This was waiting on my chair when I got back from the cafeteria.” He knew her well enough to know the fear she was concealing.

 

TE/TE/TE

 

Alex used a pair of cuticle scissors to cut the tags from their new clothes. “The kingdom had always been a play of light and shadow, the borders between vague and undefined. On one face, brightly lit, filled with cheers, gasps and laughter, painted in glitter and clothed in a cacophony of sound. On the other, near darkness, silence in the gloaming, shades of night disguising a flurry of action and deception. The onyx princess was far too young and bold to be comfortably received by the flood lights for years to come. Her youth should have spared her from the shadows as well, but the kingdom was thinning, being hunted into extinction. Fresh blood was needed. A sacrifice.”

Wiggins properly wove the laces on their new trainers as she continued. “She was quickly trained in the required talents. She learned to cut and twist wire, to evade and bend light that could not be seen. To listen to the fall of tumblers and the quiet slide of metal on metal. How to see inhuman unblinking eyes without returning the favor. Within two years, no trap could be built, no barrier erected that she could not pass unnoticed. The patriarchs themselves prepared one of the steel boxes as a final exam. She not only emptied it in half the time allotted, she liberated the contents of their pockets, which they didn’t notice until hours later.”

Alex gathered the tags and wrappers in the Boots bag, laid out some clothing for each of them, and then loaded the rest in the larger Next bag. “Her mother wept for her the first time she slid silently into the night with the rest of the reapers. The trip by vehicle long, but by foot was longer. She followed the silent directions Pyotr gave her with hand signals and gestures. Metal gates swung silently, bushes conspiring to hide her from the patrols. Black wire removed; red entwined with blue, and the slide of bolts easing back.”

She brought them both back into the bathroom, starting the water, getting to the right temperature and adjusting the curtain. “She glided soundlessly past oils and canvases bearing names she recognized from her tutors. Heavy mahogany and oak pieces far older than the country that surrounded them. A king’s ransom all, but too bulky, too heavy to be dealt with, so she passed them by.”

Wiggins took the hint, stripping off the rest of his clothing as she did hers, untying the bin bags and dropping them into the small basket as she continued. “Pyotr gestured to a doorway, sweeping his fingers parallel to the floor. The onyx princess drew close, accessed, and then bent carefully, her closely cropped curls passing untouched by the invisible light. The bars were too close for any to follow her, so she approached the pedestals alone. Emptying them and returning to Pyotr took only moments.”

She took his hand, pulled them both beneath the showerhead. She helped rinse the chemistry from his hair first, rivulets of brown running across his skin. “When they returned, her mother was shaking harder than when she had flown. Each time the onyx princess performed, her mother awaited her return, eager for the tales of what had been gained, what was being added to the horde. More eager to know her daughter was returned safe.”

The shower stall looked like a crime scene; what appeared to be blood spatter across the curtain and the walls. They switched places and she began rinsing her own hair out. “Time passed in this way, until the morning the reapers returned, heavily laden, only to find their golden princess and her obsidian prince bled out in their bed. Their daughter had missed them once more.”

 

TE/TE/TE

 

Viktor slammed through several sets of doors, lifting Moran’s manservant by the scruff of the neck and throwing him for distance. The incessant demanding summons rising from his mobile had infuriated him. As the day had worn on, he had taken ever higher risks to conclude his assignment. He would have to retreat to the shadows, perhaps even leave the country in order to evade pursuit, but he would be damned if he would leave the little mrcha alive!

“I was beginning to feel neglected.” Moran was smirking as his office door banged open. He raised a Magnum .45, gesturing the barrel toward the wall. “If you dented that, you’re paying for it! Damned British and their love affair with crumbling plaster!”

“What kind of a man needs to be updated more often than an infant needs its wet diaper changed?” Andrasko snarled. “If you want progress, you have to give me time!”

“You’ve had fifteen years, Viktor! That brat’s children are having children by now! I need my trophy, and I need him now! Have you found any answers or is it time to hand over the reins to a younger, stronger predator?” The slide of the safety declared the change could be made posthumously.

Andrasko smiled, went to the small refrigerator and pulled out the bottle of U’luvka. He filled two long tapered shot glasses, pushing one across the desk. “Just before your precious building burned, the girl was seen in intimate conversation with the pathologist from Svaty Bartolome.” He saluted with the glass and drained it in one swallow.

Moran was stunned, blank faced for several moments before the throaty laugh burst forth. “Somewhere warm, someone surrounded by brimstone is laughing at us, Viktor!” He downed the shot, pouring the last droplets on the carpet. Jimmie would have so loved this! His mousey Molly had teeth after all! Jimmie would never have allowed her to get away had he known the potential he’d missed!

“Do you want the doctor killed?” Andrasko poured another round.

“Not until I know where my trophy is.” Moran called for someone to find her address. “Set up surveillance on her flat. Tap her phones; See if you can get a telescopic camera in position. I need to know every contact she makes.”

 

TE/TE/TE

 

Just by being brought into the building, the unmarked envelope had passed through multiple tests for chemical and biological weapons. A quick call confirmed a pattern of questionable “fidelity errors” in the visual recordings of the halls and lifts leading from the service entrance to Mr. Holmes’ private office suite. He was promised immediate steps would be taken, disciplinary actions issued to ensure further deliveries would not pass unnoticed.

Mycroft drew the envelope closer. “Anthea, you should probably return to your desk. No sense in both of us being affected if…”

She rolled her eyes, handing the letter opener to him and maintaining her silence. Long ago, in a moment of high risk, she had said her peace, and the statements at the time stayed as true as they were when spoken. Her loyalties would put her nowhere else.

He briefly considered having the envelope checked for fingerprints, but dismissed the idea. Anyone with the intelligence to get the package this far undetected would never allow such an amateur mistake. If there were any traces, they would only waste time pointing at an unwitting intermediary. 

The blade slid easily into the seam, cutting smoothly through the thick manila paper. No cloud of aerosol particles, toxic or otherwise. He lifted the opposite end, dumping the contents unceremoniously on his desk. A small bundle of tied nearly black curls, a plastic vial of crimson liquid that could only be blood, a cotton swab in a resealable bag.

Mycroft assessed the items in seconds, but it was the instant photograph that clenched his ribs tight, caught his breath in his throat. The bloodied and bruised face of his brother stared back at him with hooded eyes. Their blue green tint was clouded, but the awareness and life in them was undeniable. A newspaper dated a month previous was held beneath his chin.

Neither of them spoke for several minutes. Finally, Anthea cleared her throat. “Do you want the samples tested?”

The list of possibilities scrolled in his mind. Image manipulation, cosmetic prosthetics, plastic surgery, body doubles. “Yes. Go ahead, but they will be Sherlock’s. Someone is going to considerable trouble to convince me my brother is still alive and being held against his will.”

His brother’s body had been cremated within hours of his fatal jump, as per the final instructions in his will. An autopsy had been unnecessary, but the pathologist on call had taken tissue samples for identification purposes before his body had been sent onto the crematorium. All the samples had been gathered and processed by his offices. Any samples remaining should have been safely locked away deep within their labs. 

“Have the lab confirm they still have my brother’s samples safely stored. Get Doctor Varley to perform the tests; see if he can accurately date the samples from the envelope. Have him report directly to me with the full chain of evidence.” Mycroft’s jaw clenched: he knew the pathologist on call who had taken the samples, signed off on Sherlock’s death certificate.

“Get a full security detail in place around Doctor Molly Hooper as quickly as possible. Threat level: imminent termination.”

 

TE/TE/TE

 

Wiggins sat unmoving, wrapped in a towel as Alex adjusted the depth of the electric trimmer, cutting his now chestnut hair into a far shorter style. She continued the tale. “Chaos threatened to overwhelm the kingdom. Too many had gone missing; too many questions and fears. None so close to the throne had been touched by the hunters until then. The patriarchs called for the kingdom to move immediately, but if her parents were discovered, the authorities would never allow them to get to safety. A private ritual was held, a hole carved into the ground. No stone could mark the location, but it would be held forever in the kingdom’s heart.”

She combed through her tangled newly dirty blonde curls, snipping with scissors, thinning the overall weight and cutting in long bangs. “The onyx princess was placed into Pyotr’s protection. The shadow performances would stop for a time until the predator could be flushed out, dealt with. Cities and time passed, but the questions seemed to follow like hounds to a fox. Rumbles began in the kingdom itself, tales of a cast-out that had turned against them, maddened by shame and desire. The half-heard whispers evolving into the shape and form of an evil wizard demanding retribution in blood and treasure.”

As Wiggins shaved all traces of his facial hair away, Alex used the blow dryer, pulling some of her curls into submission. “The authorities began to await the kingdom’s arrival, pressing for more and more information. Their papers began to get rejected, forcing them to move on without rest or remuneration. Increasingly the King and Queen were held for days at a time, far from their thrones, their age and ability questioned. The onyx princess would hide from the prying eyes each time, but time was running out.”

He had tried to pull her into an embrace before they dressed, more for his own comfort than any ongoing passion. With every tick of the clock, the girl he had known seemed farther away. Alex was not the same person. She moved away, going on. “Finally, on a cold hard day, covered by a grey seamless sky, the King and Queen rode to a cold stone castle, the onyx princess in a plain dress by their side. A man in long black robes hammered at a table and told the princess she was cast forever from the kingdom that had been her home. Other relations had come for her, relations that had sworn to keep her safe from any who would harm her, any who would allow her to disappear as her parents had done.”

They dressed quickly and Alex gathered the debris they had scattered around the room. The boxes from the dye and all of the cast-off hair were gathered into the Boots bag to be discarded in an anonymous skip when they left. She continued. “The onyx princess had wept, screamed, and assaulted the messenger who was to deliver her to her new home. Trapped in a black car, she tried to make the messenger understand there were circles within circles, dangers unseen to outsider’s eyes. He had smiled, patted her knee and dismissed her claims as rebellion. Her cousins would set her to rights and all would be well.”

He sat next to her on the bed, wrapping his fingers around her wrist when she wouldn’t give him her hand. He could feel the tremor moving deep within her, but her face betrayed nothing. She sighed. “The messenger delivered her into the waiting arms of her previously unknown cousin and immediately made his exit. As she met his eyes the very first time, the princess knew every story, every fable, every fairy tale she had been told was true in the most horrible way; the evil wizard stood before her, dead eyes tracking her every heartbeat. The desire for blood and vengeance and treasure was thick in the air. The wizard summoned forth a giant, who chained the onyx princess to a steel altar and stopped her heart with a thunderbolt.”

“That wasn’t the end of the story, was it?” Wiggins asked. 

“That was the end of Alexandria’s story.” She smiled brokenly. “Spyder was born fully formed in the dust and cobwebs.”

He stroked the back of her arm, watching her closely. “Then the giant found Spyder?”

“Yes.” Her eyes were clear as she nodded. She ran her fingers through his closely cropped hair. “Spyder died to protect her lover and to knight the Raven. You loved her and protected her, but only he was able to drive the evil wizard into Morpheus’ arms.”

Wiggins dropped to his knees on the floor, winding his fingers along her face, rubbing gently. “Alex, who is he? Baby, tell me! Who was the evil wizard who had Alexandria killed?”

She leaned in, kissing the joint of his jaw. Alex whispered in his ear. “Moriarty.”


	11. Chapter 11

The voicemail sounded tinny over the computer speakers. “Molly? It’s John. Listen, I know this is going to sound crazy, but…something is going on. I shouldn’t get you involved, but I’m trying to help a friend you may know. I’m guessing you’ll get off work about six. Could you meet me at that café we had dinner at last month? I’ll see you there at seven. Call me if you can’t make it.” The sound of a phone disconnecting.

“We traced the message back to a John Watson. He texted his girlfriend a dinner invitation and gave her this address.” The smaller man held out a slip of paper. 

“That’s why I pay you the big money, William.” Moran smiled. “You are always so thorough. Any word from your brother yet?”

William folded his arms, clearly annoyed. “He’s getting the cameras and mikes in place, but physical surveillance is going to be difficult. Your pathologist is already being watched. Ernie says they reek of civil service.”

“Yeah, I expected that; the Iceman circling the wagons. We get any hint my trophy’s in her flat and we’ll do a snatch and grab. Tell you what, call Ernie.” Moran relit his cigar. “When the cameras are set, have him switch over to watching the watchers. Harass and distract until we can get a look in. In the meantime, I believe I have a party to crash!”

 

TE/TE/TE

 

Molly’s phone buzzed silently in her pocket. She took a second to check that Sherlock was still dozing on the couch before she retreated to her own room. Closing the door, she glanced down at the number. The display simply read “Withheld”. She hit the button. “Hello?”

“Doctor Hooper, this is Mycroft Holmes. I trust I haven’t caught you at a bad time? I tried calling your office, but was told you were home ill.”

“Mr. Holmes.” She tried to hide the shock in her voice. He must not know anything; surely Sherlock would have told her. “Actually, I’m not at all well. Is there something you needed?”

“Doctor Hooper, I tend to try to handle delicate matters in person, but I’m afraid duty is keeping me from leaving my office today. Could I perhaps send a car around to collect you?”

Her eyes nearly bulged. “No, sorry, sir. I don’t think that would be wise. Can I help you now or can it wait until I’m feeling a bit better?” She could hear rustling in the background.

“I’m afraid it’s about my brother’s remains.” He cleared his throat. “I believe you were requested to release all tissue samples to an agent on site that day at St. Bartholomew’s; is that correct?”

“Yes, sir. I put them in the standard packaging and gave them to an Agent Thompson. She signed for them; the paperwork should be in the hospital’s files.” Usually the paper trail blurred for her over time, but that day was carved in her memory in vivid detail.

A pause. “I don’t mean to be insensitive, Doctor Hooper, but I was aware you had a certain…fondness for my brother. Is there any chance you perhaps kept a memento mori? A lock of hair, or…”

Molly felt like cold jelly was creeping down her spine. She was sure the chill carried over to her voice. “No, Mr. Holmes, I did not. Now if we have no further business…”

“I do apologize. I certainly intended no disrespect. I would never have asked such a question, but for reasons I’m not at liberty to discuss, I have an urgent need to locate any samples of my brother’s tissue that may have been left behind.”

She shut her eyes for a moment, possibilities suddenly flooding her mind. “I’m sure you have your reasons, Mr. Holmes. Any other questions?”

His voice hardened again. “There is a small chance, Doctor, that those who were present at my brother’s death may be under some scrutiny. Have you suspected anyone has been following you? Any unusual telephone calls or contacts?”

Besides this one? she didn’t ask. “Nothing that I’ve been aware of. If I notice anything, I’ll be sure to call Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Perhaps it would be better to call my offices direct. I can have my assistant give you the number.”

“No, Mr. Holmes.” It came out far harder than she’d intended. “That won’t be necessary.” She prayed he wasn’t as observant as Sherlock.

“Doctor Watson told you.” It wasn’t a question.

Told me what? She wanted to ask. That you sold your brother out? That you put that target on his back? That you drew that monster the bloody road map to destroy Sherlock? No. Those questions weren’t hers to ask.

“Don’t blame John.” She sounded defeated. “He was three shots from full blown alcohol poisoning when I found him. He would have confessed to kidnapping the Lindberg baby if he thought it would have changed anything.”

A deep breath. “If you feel threatened in any way, Miss Hooper…”

“I’ll call Lestrade.” Her voice was firm.

“You missed your calling, Doctor Hooper. That was a very elegant way to tell me to piss off. I hope you feel better soon. Good day, Doctor.” The call ended.

 

TE/TE/TE

 

Wiggins watched in fascination as Alex punctured holes in the sheet of card stock, used the holes and the cuticle scissors to cut freehand shapes from the large white surface.

First was a waved line, like a child’s drawing of a bird in flight soaring across the board. Below that were three lower case letter “I”, evenly spaced and as long as his palm. Then below that were three number fours, again evenly spaced, their center holes left open, followed by a capitol “H”. Finally, at the end, the roman numerals “VIII”. The entire image was slightly larger than A3 paper, the card stock no longer strong enough to hold itself upright.

She rolled it carefully, tucking it into her messenger bag alongside the rattling spray paint can. “We need to go.”

Wiggins grabbed their shopping bags, looking over the room to be sure they hadn’t left anything behind. “Where to next?”

“I need to leave a few messages; see if we can get some help.” She slung her bag over her shoulder. “Then we’d best get to the Raven before anyone learns our new faces. I have a promise to keep.”

 

TE/TE/TE

 

Sherlock was leaning against the kitchen counter beside the brewing coffee maker as she came out of her bedroom. “Mycroft.” He wasn’t asking a question.

Molly almost smiled, taking it as a sign he was getting better. “He was checking on your samples.” She tugged lightly at his arm. “Go sit down. I can remember it from here.”

“You’ll be watched now.” He flopped back on the couch, trying to arrange the cushions to fit. “Moran must have already contacted him. Whatever he’s up to, he must still be going forward with it. Stupid unless he’s on someone else’s schedule.”

“You don’t know his plan then?” Molly got down the mugs and sugar, rejecting the few stale wagon wheels in the biscuit tin.

“Nothing specific.” He sighed. “No word from Wiggins or the girl?” He understood her avoiding her given name, but she had to choose a different alias. At least a different spelling.

She poured two cups, adding a generous splash of milk to hers. Molly desperately wanted the details of what had happened to him, but she knew pushing him would yield the opposite result. Better to stay on fringe topics. “Sherlock, what I don’t understand is how a family of circus performers ended up as jewel thieves.”

He took the cup from her, turning it to grasp the handle. Sherlock gestured at the computer. “That article wasn’t very accurate. Saying the Salamonsky family ran a circus would be like saying Chopin played a little piano. They were the Tsar’s personal circus. They hired tumblers from the Bolshoi. Mikhail Kalmanson did some of their poster art. Twice a Salamonsky woman married a Romanov man.”

Molly looked aghast. “You mean Russian royalty?” She sat in the recliner.

He shook his head. “Even if there were anything that could be claimed, the records of her family are disputable after the revolution. The company kept on the move all over Europe, marriage and birth records improperly filed or even forged. Everyone who worked for them was considered family, so no one can even be sure Alexandria really is a Salamonsky, let alone a Romanov.”

“I don’t suppose Prince Philip would be willing to give a sample to test her with.” Molly sank lower in her seat. “And the rest…how did they end up jewel thieves?”

“After the revolution, their patron was gone. Again, the records aren’t reliable, but it seems they were trying to regain control over Nicholas’ collection. Eventually, they moved on to other royal houses, then to various gentrified families.”

“A traveling act, so they were never in one place for very long. People with the right skills for thwarting security systems.” Molly was thinking aloud. “Wouldn’t Interpol have gotten after them?”

Mycroft had given him the answer the author of the wikipedia page didn’t have. “After the iron curtain fell, they also took up smuggling state secrets. Everything from lists of spies to weapon plans. Interpol was willing to turn a blind eye until it all fell apart.”

“Royal jewels would be too recognizable to sell to anyone but private collectors. They would have made more robbing jewelry stores. How much were they supposed to have stolen?”

He smirked, amused by how she was thinking it through. “No one really knows. A majority of the horde has never been recovered. There was evidence some of the robberies were done as insurance scams, the items found later with the original owners. A few items were located on the black market after the family began disappearing; but nothing that could be traced to the original seller.”

Molly stared into her cup. “You think the cousin who got custody of Spyder was behind the disappearances? Someone trying to get at the horde of jewels?” What a terrible secret to entrust to a child.

“They disappeared shortly after she did. I don’t know if the disappearances continued after that.” Sherlock sat up, finally beginning to feel the caffeine. “The rest of the company fell apart after she was gone. They’re scattered all over Europe now. Last I heard, some of them are even here in London.” Had they somehow gotten her back, hidden her here? If so, why was she living on the streets with Wiggins?

Molly jumped at the sharp rapping on her door. She gestured for Sherlock to stay on the couch long enough to check the peephole. “I think it’s them.” She undid the locks, giving the visitors access.

Wiggins came in first, looking chagrined and running a hand through his now shorter, darker hair. As he nodded to Sherlock, his other hand made a fist, the shortest finger pointing at the floor. It was Wiggins’ code to Sherlock: need a private word, important information.

The girl entered next and Sherlock was startled by the change. The color and cut of her hair were drastic enough, but the other physical changes were astounding. She hadn’t seemed to slump before, yet somehow she seemed taller now. A strong set to her jaw he hadn’t noticed before. Hardness in her eyes. He could remember now Wiggins telling him of her going into a fugue state; had whatever trauma she’d endured fragmented her deeply enough to trigger that rare defense mechanism? “Alexandria?”

Her smile was a bit lopsided. “Just Alex now. The rest burned away in the ozone. Hello, Raven.”

 

TE/TE/TE

 

Lestrade waited until he was sure to not be interrupted before calling Mycroft Holmes’ office. He hated this feeling; withholding information from his own people when lives could be at stake. He just kept reminding himself there could be even more at risk than he was willing to bargain for.

Anthea picked up, but he declined her offer to put him through to the man himself. “If you’d just pass on word that witnesses at the shelter said a huge man had a picture and was asking questions, I’d appreciate it. I got nothing beyond that.”

Anthea seemed to pick up on something in his tone. “Detective Inspector, please believe me when I say I know how difficult keeping secrets can be, especially when it seems to border on blind allegiance. He would not have asked this of you if there were another way.”

“I know.” He swallowed. “I just wish I didn’t feel like we’re at the wrong end of the shooting gallery.”

“Then we’ll just have to wrap it up before the firing begins.”

 

TE/TE/TE

 

As Wiggins settled in her chair with a cup of coffee, Molly reached for her older coat in the back of her closet. “Sherlock, I got a call from John. He said something was up and wants me to meet him in about half an hour. He gets a lot of the homeless as patients at his clinic. I really think I should go.”

“It’s not safe.” He was pushing himself up off the couch.

“I know.” She waved her purse at him. “But if I don’t show up, he may come here. You said your brother will be watching me anyway. I really think I have to go.”

“It may be my fault.” Alex shrugged. “I ran into him earlier today and he may know I was being pursued.” She gestured to her hair. “It was before all this. I could go with her, if you’d like.”

“She’s got one hell of a left hook.” Wiggins grimaced.

Sherlock was obviously not happy, but there seemed few options. Besides, Wiggins was still giving the urgent signal. “John shouldn’t recognize you, Alex, but keep some distance if you can. Stay in public sight, all right? And call if anything goes wrong?”

Molly nodded and she and Alex made their way out the door.

Wiggins sprung up to do up the chain and the bolts. “How much of Alex’s story do you know?” He came and sat on the coffee table.

“It was a case; she was a missing person fifteen years ago. When did you find out?” Sherlock was confused, thinking the information was going to be about Moran.

Wiggins shook his head dismissively. “Alex said an evil wizard took her away from her family and killed her.”

“Her family had been disappearing for years; a cousin came forward and got legal custody of her right before she disappeared. You’re saying she thinks her cousin killed her?” Sherlock had suspected the man had been involved all along.

Wiggins face had gone stone still. “Sherlock, she said the evil wizard’s name was Moriarty.”

“That’s not possible.” Sherlock’s stomach tightened. “Her cousin was in his forties when he got custody. Moriarty was my age.”

“I know.” Wiggins nodded. “But I also know she collected every newspaper article she could find on Richard Brook’s trial. You’ve always been the Raven to her. She called Brook the Serpent; not Moriarty.”

Words from a memory, the voice of an old cabbie. “There are others out there just like you, except you’re just a man and they’re so much more than that.”

 

TE/TE/TE

 

Molly left Alex browsing books in a cart out in front of the shop directly across from the café. She just prayed Sherlock was right and the girl was far enough away that John wouldn’t recognize her. She suspected he didn’t properly understand John’s ability to memorize a pretty face.

The café had round tables between the building and street, and she slid into a seat, facing the direction of John’s flat. The setting sun was in her eyes, but it would make it easier for John to spot her. She gave the waiter her order for peppermint tea. Caffeine was not a requirement at the moment. 

She took a deep breath, in through her nose, blown slowly out her mouth. Glancing around, she remembered Sherlock’s insistence that his brother would have her at least observed if not actively watched. Molly couldn’t see anyone, but that was meaningless. If his agents were any good, she shouldn’t be able to notice them.

She saw the waiter place the cup and saucer on the table in her peripheral vision, thanking him absently while still watching the street. Something seemed to be wrong with Alex; she had dropped the book she had been leafing through. 

It was enough that instinctively Molly started to stand, only to discover a sudden vice-like grip holding her wrist to the table. “Leaving so soon, little girl?” A dark purr. “But I just got here.”

Moran grinning like the Cheshire Cat and she tried not to faint. Public place with plenty of people around; surely he wouldn’t do anything that might draw attention. She eased her way slowly back into the chair. “Mr. Moran.” Molly cleared her throat. No point in trying to be too innocent. “Has DI Lestrade made any progress about your unfortunate arson?”

“Oh, let’s leave the law out of this for the time being.” He leaned in, looking for all the world like he was flirting. “You know, you really had Jimmie fooled. The little mouse with the novelty sweaters and the tea cozies. I tried to tell him it was the quiet ones you had to watch out for. I bet you’re a real hellion in the sack, a screamer. Am I right?” He smirked.

She wanted to scream right now. Her legs buzzed with the desire to run. “Jimmie wasn’t interested in finding out. Can I have my hand back, please?”

He curled his fingers around hers in a parody of affection. A slow kiss to the back of her hand, followed by a sudden sharp bite to the end of her middle finger. “But it’s such a lovely hand. How many corpses has it fondled, I wonder. We used to talk about it after. How sunshine and kittens could be dark enough to comfortably wallow in blood and brain matter. Maybe after we resolve our…issues, we could do a little exploratory surgery. See what it takes to…”

She bit down on the inside of her cheek, hard. Her eyes never left Moran’s, but she could see him from the corner of her eye. There had to be some way to stop him; some way to warn him away. Molly couldn’t decide what would be worse; if Alex came across the street and Moran recognized her, or if…

John stopped several feet away. Body language made it clear to him that the man sitting with Molly was making her very uncomfortable, yet he was holding her hand and leaning in as if they were intimate. Her eyes darted to him suddenly and fear seemed to pour from her. John saw the minute shake of her head, but there was no way he was going to abandon her, not with danger palpable in the air.

“Dr. Watson!” Moran kept up his stare; his voice full of glistening joy. “Please join us! Molly was beginning to worry!”

His first impulse was to take the chair at Molly’s side, but John thought it would be better to stay nearer the apparent threat. He put his hands on the back of the chair opposite her, making no move to sit. “I think the lady would like her hand back.” He kept his tone even, unsure what was actually happening.

“What the lady likes is not my concern.” Moran turned, his face going icy. “Now sit down, pet. Don’t make me hit you with a rolled up newspaper.”

The word hung in John’s mind. The last time he had seen such cold insanity, it had been in a courtroom. A verdict that still rung out in his nightmares. Not close to the same face, but the wave of familiarity rocked him. “Who the hell are you?”

Moran snorted. “My questions, first. Now sit down.” His fingers tightened on Molly’s hand until John was afraid she might break. John sat, careful to keep a distance between himself and the table.

“Molly, dear, the time for flirtation is over, I’m afraid.” Moran brought both his hands around hers. “I need my trophy back, and I need him now. If you don’t have him, I’m sure you know where to look. And don’t try playing dumb; it’s beneath you.”

She tried to swallow; her throat bone dry. “I can’t help you, Mr. Moran.” Molly dared a quick look at John. She wanted to see Alex as well, but was afraid of drawing attention to the girl if Moran hadn’t noticed her yet. Her heart was pounding too hard to think.

“You can, little girl, and you will.” Moran’s voice turned to cold steel. “You see, he’s the key to my vengeance. Jimmie made him the key to everything. Like everything of Jimmie’s, he’s mine now.”

A dark suspicion started to swallow John. It wasn’t possible. Insane theories he’d finally let go of were suddenly rearing up. A name from the darkest, deepest nightmares, a sing-song Irish lilt. The strong desire to bolt, but he couldn’t leave Molly to face it alone.

Molly’s face was ashen, but she leaned in and hissed. “Then why don’t you find a way to ask him?”

Moran seemed to stop breathing for a moment, fury being carefully packed away. “The mouse has teeth.” He sighed, letting go of her hand and leaning back in his chair. “But not brains. I’m sure he’s cooked up some scheme, some way of evading his responsibility. A coward till the end.” 

Almost unnoticed, a blonde woman waved, trying to get John’s attention. Nearly hysterical, all John could think was “Vatican cameos” and how foolish he had thought his friend’s code had been; right up until the bullets were flying around them. Now he desperately wished he’d found some code to try to warn Mary. She was getting closer.

“You’ll run.” Moran sounded disgusted. “I’ll make you a deal, mouse. I’ll give you an hour head start, but you have to tell John Watson the truth right now. Ought to be worth a laugh.”

John’s eyes locked with Molly’s. The small glimpses he had gotten of his friend’s broken and bloody body had been shoved away immediately into nightmare territory; he hadn’t believed his friend had died until the woman before him had told him so. The woman he had known loved his friend; who would have done anything to help him. Who wouldn’t have left him alone.

“Oh, for god’s sake!” Moran spat. “We’ll do it the hard way.”

There was no sound. John knew even if a silencer were used, gunshots made noise, yet suddenly two people in his sight were caught in the scarlet mist of a bullet hitting flesh. He was up and moving, grabbing Mary, shoving her to the ground and covering her with his own body before he heard the first screams. Trying to hide the carnage from Mary’s view, he turned enough to see Molly across the street, running with another woman into a nearby alley. Moran had simply disappeared.

On the roof across the way, John thought he saw the barrel of a rifle pulled over the side. The flood of panicked people, surging to escape the unseen menace seemed to have ended. He sat up, drawing Mary with him as she patted him over, looking for damage. “John, are you okay?” Her voice cracked.

“The son of a bitch is alive.” Sirens were approaching. First, he’d make sure Mary was safe. Then he had to find Mycroft Holmes.


End file.
